Light and Life and Love
by Hollywoodx4
Summary: It's third year...After an accident the day of the Prix, Abigail's life becomes one of hospital visits and help with rehabilitation. In the moment she feels she'd sacrifice everything for him, she realizes that she must. Grace Whitney returns to the academy with zipped lips and a curfew enforced strictly by Lucy herself. But what could've lead to such strict guidelines? (SxA, GxB)
1. Grace

Revenge sounds fun at first, but then you're three years into it with no friends and a reputation and you just have to think-was it worth it?

That's the exact thought running through Abigail Armstrong's mind as she watches the students coming back for another year at the academy. Loud, bubbling voices trickle through the hallway, accompanied by stomping feet and the roll, roll, trip of suitcase wheels along the hardwood floors. She sits on her bed-already pristinely made, of course-and watches through the half-opened blinds of her window. Some stop in front of it, looking at maps or greeting friends, but all continue without so much as a second glance toward her lonely room.

She had burned all of her bridges a long time ago, it seemed. When Sammy had gotten into his accident, when things were _really_ bad, she'd shut out even the people who had stayed with her. When they sat with her, brought her coffee and consoled her, she had nodded her downturned head and looked away. Who were these people, anyway, who thought they could take her place at his bedside vigil?

It had been a long summer. Abigail had watched vacations and friends driving the long distances to meet through social media posts on her phone. _She_ had spent the holiday driving to her therapist, whom she had willingly agreed to meet when things with Sammy's incident had seemed to be spiraling at a pace she couldn't handle.

But really, in all actuality, was it her fault that nobody was there? That _she_ was the one by his side, day in and day out, while his 'friends' went on their holidays and posted silly Instagram photos as if nothing had ever happened? As if he were right alongside them as he should have been?

She'd lapsed from the grace of his friends one morning, after scanning through yet another bout of holiday photos. They'd come stumbling in during the early morning hours, around nine or ten in the morning. Abigail had just relieved his mother from her post so that she could get them some coffee, and was alone in the room ready to face her day. She was writing-an activity imposed on her by Isa, which she actually didn't mind so much anymore. Almost an entire journal full in the short two weeks he'd been in the hospital, she'd rehashed every thought, look, and sensation she felt. Every moment in each day in what was now nearly a year of their relationship, written in multiple pens on the lined pages of the Moleskine given to her as a 'welcome back, now here's what you have to do' present from Isa.

She shut her journal abruptly upon hearing the noise, glaring up from her morning peace to find them ambling in, an apologetic Kat at their lead. Then came Christian, and Tara, and a host of faces she barely recognized. There were six of them in total; six bodies to crowd the room, six voices to bounce off linoleum tiles and white walls, six presences to disrupt the peace of her morning.

Christian and three of his friends-lanky, foolish guys as they were-left trails of saltwater wherever they walked, smelling up the room with the salty bite of the ocean air. She glared at them in turn, shaking her head at them in disbelief.

"And you brought the ocean in because…?"

"We were just out surfing and decided to stop by, is it really that bad?" Kat turns first to Abigail in question, then to the boys she's glaring at with an ice cold stare. She watches droplets of water hit the floor, a nearly inaudible splash, and covers her forehead in embarrassment.

"Oi, you never dried your hair!" She glares at the boys then too, but the corners of her lips are upturned in a sneaky smirk. Abigail bites her tongue, focusing on the consistency of Sammy's heart monitor. One…two…three…four… She counts along with it, evening her breathing as red clouds her vision. Kat, Tara, Christian, and their posse step closer to his bed, eyes scanning along his motionless figure in pity. Kat sits on the edge of the bed, just staring, and sniffs a bit.

"I still can't believe this." It's silent now, save the familiar humming inside the hospital walls, and Abigail feels, for the first time since their stumbling in, a total emotional synch with her former best friend.

"I can't either." The brunette replies from her place in her chair. Her voice is low, barely recognizable to the way she once was. "But things look hopeful-at least, that's what the doctor's said yesterday. It's all completely inconceivable until he wakes up, though. Until he's unhooked from those monitors and back to being Sammy again, I don't know if I can believe a word they say."

There's a noticeably awkward silence in the room then, a few of the guys deciding to head out and leave Sammy's closer friends to their privacy. She looks among them, the friends he'd managed to make and keep in their short two years at the academy; loyal, trusting, fun-loving…friends he'd do anything for. Then her eyes lock on the falling droplets of salt-ridden water as they litter the floor with their moisture.

His friends. The ones who swear they'll always be by his side. The ones he'd live for, die for…the friends who still went around for holiday-on surf trips and bushwalks and grand adventures-all while the one who planned these grand events lay motionless in a hospital bed. It was almost too much, the anger that burned inside of her now, and she kept one hand in the bag beside her chair, popping bubble-wrap bubbles and focusing her breathing, just as she was taught.

"…wish he could have seen the swell I caught this morning-he would've loved it!" They were chatting now, nodding in agreement and recounting the morning as if it actually mattered to them what he would have thought about the waves. It didn't-to Abigail anyway. Who were these people, she thought, who were all talk and no action? Who left him lying in a bed while they continued on with their lives as normal?

"It's really not fair, is it?" She's terse now, out of her range of control and unable to mask the impending anger she's about to dole out. "It's not fair that he has to lay here, unconscious and possibly dying, while his friends continue on their summer holiday as if he's just decided he can't go. He missed the greatest opportunity of his life because of this idiot driver who couldn't even stop to see if he was alright, and you're acting like nothing even happened!"

It's the first time she's spoken with such intensity, such ferocity since the morning after his accident, when she'd stumbled into Isa's office, dry-heaving and stumbling over her words. And they had no idea. Looking among them, from Tara's irritancy to Christian's blank stare, right on to Kat's heaving breaths of unfiltered offence.

"How dare you," She begins, inching toward Abigail with an outstretched finger. "What gives you the right to sit there and attack us for not being here? How would you know what Sammy would want? I know, he respects you and he loved you and he wanted us all to be friends. But how can I even begin to be friends with someone who's sitting here day in and day out pretending like she actually cares? What kind of right do you have to call us out on anything? Who are you to Sammy that we're not?!"

It's like everything freezes; in one fleeting moment, Abigail's jaw is stuck unhinged, her eyes widened and accusatory, ready to throw words back in Kat's face. But the thrumming of the monitor makes her pause. One...two…three..four…and she sucks in a breath before her eyes well with unwelcomed tears.

"I can't…I'm not…" She chokes out syllables between breaths, attempting to suck the tears back out of sight where they belong. "There are things that _you_ don't know either, Kat. Ever take that into consideration? I _love_ him. And he loves me too. And some things happened that brought us back together that night, before the accident. But those are things that are between us, and that will _stay_ between us. I don't have to prove myself to you anymore; to any of you. I don't care one way or the other if you think that I'm just playing some game with you. This isn't first year anymore, we're not children. And I'm going to stay here with him and support him not because it's some wild dying wish of his, but because I _need_ to be here."

"People cope in different ways, Abigail. You can sit, and you can _need_ to be stuck in this hospital, or in a studio, but I _can't._ I'm going to spend my holiday the way I need to, so don't come accusing me of being anything less than what I am, which is his _best_ friend."

…

She'd burned all of her bridges a long time ago, so when she heard the rolling of suitcases approach her door before stopping by her bedside she froze, praying that the worst wouldn't come.

A pair of long, thin legs meets her downcast eyes first, feet clad in grey high top Converse. She follows the legs up to a colorful, Aztec printed romper and a sleeveless jean vest. Tons of chunky jewelry dangle around her neck, and then her eyes meet bouncy blonde curls, springing just above her shoulders. She isn't sure how to feel until the blonde steps forward, holding her arms out for a hug.

"It's good to see you here, Abbi. How are you holding up?" Abigail welcomes the embrace with a barely managed smile, just the corners of her lips tilting up while her eyes fail to make the same attempts. Nevertheless it feels nice, looking back at blue eyes that are genuine instead of accusatory. As if she knows just what went on that summer that made her so alienated.

"I'm holding, I guess. Thanks for asking, Grace."

"Never got around to telling you I'm your new roommate. Guess it's been kind of crazy around here…" She pauses briefly, one hand moving to hold the other. Her gaze falls to the floor, and it's the first time Abigail has ever seen Grace Whitney-wild, effervescent, free spirit of a dancer-look more ashamed of herself. "I really hope you're not angry at me-about the Prix, I mean. I tried to explain myself to the others, and there was this awful shouting match, and-"

"Stop," Abigail looks up with a harsh expression, standing so that she can rest her hands on her companion's shoulders. "I understand. Completely. You don't need to explain yourself to me. I'm not going to blame you for making a choice."

Two deep breaths and then Grace smiles her familiar, always-a-little-mischievous smile, reaching back to pull her suitcase into her room.

"Well then, welcome to third year. This could be fun, the two of us being roomies. And if anybody has anything to say to you don't worry, I've got your back. We've gotta stick this one out together. Allies in the bloody third year war, right?"

Abigail smiles and makes her way out into the hallway, pulling another one of Grace's suitcases into their room. It feels nice, laughing again. And as they rearrange the room she thinks that maybe third year won't be so bad after all.


	2. Kind of a Funny Story

**Abigail's Journal**

January 28th, 2013

I suppose I'm back into the world of journaling…

Isa says that it's supposed to be good for me; that it's all about getting my thoughts down on paper and sorting them out, no matter how I do it. I'm 'required' to do it at least twice a week, but it's more about _when_ I do it than the number of times.

I guess I should have known that something like this was coming; she's known me for almost three years, and now that I'm back with her she _really_ knows me. I've been in that blue chair enough times to know that when Isa assigns me something to do, it's not just a suggestion.

Today I sat for a long time without talking, and I could tell it was really irritating her. It's not my fault I don't feel like talking to her sometimes. She just stares at me through her super dark eyes and waits, sometimes tapping her pen and others getting up to fill her glass of water. She knows that I don't initiate conversation, but that I get irritated by her run-of-the-mill questions easily.

So then she rolls her eyes at me-come on, are we eleven years old?-and walks slowly over to her floor to ceiling bookcase. She stands for a while, glancing back at me with her lips tight, before grabbing a notebook off of the shelf. And it's this little pink journal, with torn pages and sticky notes poking out from the top. I recognize it immediately.

She has _my_ journal. The first one I wrote with the Academy psychologist, the one I'd faked my way through hoping I'd be able to dance again. And she sits and skims through it, like she knows it's making me nervous. And then she stops, her finger holding her place, and stares at me again. And that's when she says it.

 _I think it would be beneficial for you to try this again._

And I'm sitting there thinking about all of the crap I wrote down in that book, holding back a laugh. Clearly, I'm not a writer. So I let her know that. There were only one or two things I'd put in that journal that were true. The rest were pretty affirmations that I'd barely even read. At that point I didn't want to get better, didn't feel like I was even sick. Where I am now isn't where I was when I was given that journal the first time, so why should I have to continue on a path that I'd already taken? It felt like being given medicine to ward off the wrong form of cancer.

But then she pulls out this Moleskine, and kind-of-sort-of smiles at me, and I know that I _have_ to do this.

So long story short, that's why I'm writing this. Because I've already written down everything she asked about my 'history;' my eating disorder and Sammy and my obvious lack of friends. I've spent enough time doing what she's asked. I've written while I'm anxious, I've written when I'm scared…it's time for me to write something just because. As stupid as this is it's strangely sort of helping me? So here's how my life has been.

This is actually really strange, even to be writing out on paper, but I think Grace is my friend now? Like my actual, honest to god friend. I don't know exactly how to feel about it, mostly because we went through such a weird patch when I first met her that being friendly with her now just brings back all the dishonesty of that time. Who finds it fun to lie and pretend that someone's collapsing, or someone's a celebrity, just to get free things? (Although I'll admit that that day was actually pretty entertaining). And she'd conned Kat and Tara's friendship to hell by exposing Kat's feelings for Christian all that time ago, and even _I_ thought it was a pretty shitty thing to do.

But I don't think it's going to be like that. At all, really. The first night as roommates we kind of just clicked. It wasn't like living with Tara at all, where she had a blatant disregard for anything I wanted and I (admittedly) was rude and terrible to her. It wasn't like being by myself, which was actually kind of nice but really lonely. It was something different entirely. At first we didn't say much, I just helped her unpack her things and make her bed. After the whole 'are you mad at me about the Prix' thing I kind of backed off for a bit. I mean I really honesty am not mad at her at all-when I think about it, I probably would have been prone to doing the same thing.

She understands. I can't exactly explain how, but she does. That first night, after unpacking and going to get dinner, we sat on the floor and just talked. I told her everything-literally _everything_ about that night with Sammy, before the accident. And she was really receptive, and understanding, and is this what it's like to have a best friend?

Grace said that she had a pretty rough holiday too. I guess after the Prix everyone kind of shut her out, completely unexpected, except for Miss Raine. She and I were doing the same thing-training, therapy…turning holiday into work time, trying to get ahead. She's just as terrified of third year as I am. I think it's the way they explained it to us the very first day of classes; So many of us in our first year leos with our bright and smiling faces, only to be taken out by stress or lack of talent or the need to be a 'normal' teenager. I guess in the end, everyone's worried about the inevitable end, of our years of training still not being good enough for a company.

So things on the Grace end are good. I'm glad she's my roommate, even though I was nervous when I saw her step into our room the first time. It's not that I don't like her, I just found her a little hard to trust. But she and I are more alike than I thought; ambitious and damaged, the perfect lethal combination.

Things with Sammy seem to be looking up, but I'm not going to celebrate anything until I'm 100% sure of it. When I went to visit yesterday morning he seemed to be doing better. He's more active now than he was before; he has movement in both his hands now as well as his left leg. They're hoping that with time, he'll be back to full usage of his muscles. They say he's recovering at a surprisingly fast rate, but then again that's Sammy. He's always been one to amaze people.

We talked a lot today while I was there, which was nice until he started to get serious. It's not that I don't love him, because I really _really_ do, but he's always talking 'when' and not 'what if.' While I have every scenario planned out in my head, he's focused on the moment he steps back into the studio again. I keep trying to stop the thoughts in my head from running rampant. It's something Isa has been attempting as well-getting to the root of the obsession rather than the branches I take through every little detail. Living in the moment is something that I apparently really need to do, but how can I when the moment is so tentative?

But I'm trying, and somehow that's all that matters. So here's another stupid mantra I found on the internet. But I'm putting it here because it's relevant, and not because I have to.

"Every day may not be good, but there is good in every day."

I've had my fair share of shitty luck and horrible days. Ballet is not forgiving, life is not one big ball of sunshine, and I am aware of it. But I am also aware that every day has its moments. I need to remember this. Take yesterday for a perfect example

So I get all the way to the hospital, and I'm lugging this bag of things for us to do-like his school work and some old movies and things-and I get all the way to his room and find his door shut. I walk in and he's so deep in sleep that he doesn't even flinch when I drop the bag all over the floor, and everything inside of it spills out everywhere. And I'm frustrated.

A. Because I could have woken him up.

B. Because he's _not_ up

C. I've just come from working extra training with Grace, and I'm sore and I'm exhausted and I just really wanted to see him that night.

And so, I do exactly what I hate and sit on the floor, in the middle of his room, and cry. And it's pathetic because I _never_ cry in public and I _never_ get this upset over stupid things like that, but I just couldn't bring myself to stop. It was cathartic, in a pitiful sort of way, because I guess I've been holding a lot in lately and that was exactly what I needed to let it out.

But then it got slightly mortifying.

Sammy's mom walks in as I'm sitting in the middle of the floor, and for half a second she just stares at me. But then she sits with me on the floor, and at this point I can tell that it's her because she wears this flowery, almost milky kind of perfume that just hits you the second she walks into any room. And she wraps her hands around me (her _freezing cold_ hands) and pets my hair and waits for me to stop crying. And yeah, it's annoying and physical contact like that isn't really the most pleasant thing for me, but it's such a motherly thing to do that I can't push her away.

And then she helps me pick up, and orders me to come with her to the cafeteria. So we sit at this cold metal table, and she buys me a cup of tea, and it's such a nice gesture that I want to cry again. But I don't. We just sit, and she asks me about school and Grace and the other million things I tell Sammy about every day. It was such a nice distraction. And she told me all of these stories about her college life, and living with this creepy roommate who she thought was going to kill her…imagining Sammy's quiet and conservative mom going head to head with some knife-wielding psychopath definitely brightened my day.

And that's why I need to keep that mantra in my head. Because the stupid day I had yesterday ended in such a nice moment, and it never would have happened if I hadn't been having such a hard time lately. So I'm glad that I dropped all of those things out of my stupid bag, and I'm glad that I got to sit for a few hours with Sammy's mom. Because even though he wasn't feeling well yesterday, I'm starting to learn that the 'bad' things that I can't control can end up in the best way.


	3. Adelaide

She wasn't practical. She took the long way home to listen her music longer, and required a nightlight to sleep, but boy was she fascinating. Grace Whitney was a light tropical storm; palm trees swayed in her presence, and the ocean gave in to her gravitational pull, but in the end she always left a beautiful rainbow and the faint smell of tropical fruit. Sure, she caused the occasional mischief, but what was life without a little bit of drama?

At least, that's what she had thought. By the end of second year, it seemed that her little 'hobby' of reading and manipulating people had gone too far, and she was left with nothing. It hurt a little, but returning to Sydney was necessary. Unexpected things seemed to follow her wherever she went, just the side effect of Hurricane Grace. Shadows found her in every corner of every tropical paradise she'd created, until it wasn't clear whether the shadows were even a separate part of her. But if she'd learned anything over holiday, it was that like it or not Grace Whitney wasn't done at the Academy, and she sure as hell wasn't a quitter.

Which is why she chose Abigail. When she saw that her room had an empty slot, the cursor of her mouse hung over it for a long time. While it seemed like Grace Whitney had every ounce of confidence, issues like this made her hang back. As her cursor remained on that back room of the third floor she thought back to every moment she'd spent with Abigail. In the beginning, their relationship seemed like it would go amazingly-because from what she read during their first meeting she'd been a touch crazed talking to her little plant. But then she'd turned, and Grace had witnessed 'Abigail preparing for battle' before her first class second year and decided that while Tara seemed to be a goody two-shoes, Abigail had a fight in her that Grace just had to stir up.

And so she'd begun her tug-of-war game with her newfound friend's emotions, and just when she was in as her new friend she'd dropped her, just like everybody else. Only this time, the look of complete disgust and betrayal on her victim's face had actually been _painful_ to see. And when they passed in the halls, or when she was trying to become Tara's friend and Abigail wouldn't even spare her a second glance…there'd been a sting there she didn't recognize. It was the actual, true pain of the consequences of her little games. No longer was Grace Whitney the darling little minx that toyed with people's minds…she was just Grace, looking for a friend where she'd lost her so long ago.

She can't help but think just how lucky she is to be given a second chance. With all of the damage she'd done to Tara last year, she knew that she'd be coming into the Academy absolutely friendless, and with no more little games to play. Lucy wouldn't allow her another mistake, and the ultimatum had been set when she'd begged to come back to Sydney.

 _Grace Amelia Whitney, this is your last chance. If I let you come back to the Academy you'll be checking in with me once a week so that I know you're doing well. You'll make suitable choices in your roommate and the people you spend your time with. You will spend more time training than any of your other extra-curriculars._ At this point she'd rolled her eyes and scoffed a bit, and she thought for sure Lucy would slap her right then and there. Instead, she put her arm around her niece and pulled her close.

 _I know you miss your mother, Grace. You've missed her your whole life. But you don't have to end up like her. You_ won't _end up like her. I'm here, and I'm going to take care of you. All you have to do to get my attention is say my name._

And, after all of the crying and hugging and promising she'd work hard, she'd put herself into Abigail's room. Because nobody else would impress Lucy Raine as a roommate more than the girl who'd worked her way to the top on pure dedication. So when Abigail wakes too early in the morning, or leaves the door unlocked by accident, she lets it slip. Her middle name _has_ been changed tolenience, after all. She supposed that the more she worked toward this new goal of hers, the more she'd be able to hide Hurricane Grace and her shadow days.

…

She lays on her bed, feet dangling off one end while her head tips over the other. Her blonde ringlets feel free with the way they are swaying along with the impatience of her movements. Her feet kick, her back arches and collapses, and she sighs a light and airy sigh as she glances over at her roommate's empty bed.

It's been like this for a few hours. They'd just gotten out of class and had barely changed when Abigail had started rushing. Lately, she was always the first one out the door, changed into her casual clothing before most of the class was even _in_ the changing rooms. And then, it would begin. After attempting to crack a few jokes about Miss Raine's complete impatience or weak Amelia's lack of a proper turnout Abigail would laugh halfheartedly, sling her bag on, and throw a quick goodbye over her shoulder. As much as she loved the girl, Grace couldn't help but find irritation in her newfound best friend's overwhelming maturity.

Each night they had 'Abigail and Grace Time,' which included dinner in the quad, an extra training session, and a nightly chat. The same thing, day in and day out. She appreciated the time, Grace, but there was something just so lawfully wrong about two Friday nights of Golden Steps marathons broken up by the nightly Sammy check-in.

So she lays on her bed wiggling her iridescent plum toenails, heaving heavy sighs of annoyance as she glances at the clock.

"Dis-Grace," The greeting catches her off-guard, and she nearly rolls off the bed at the booming resonance of his familiar voice. Grace sits up, huffing a flyaway curl out of her glimmering eyes. Her mischievous grin lifts the edges of her lips just a fraction of an inch.

"Dangle. What have I done to earn your company?"

"There's a rumor going around that _you_ are doing absolutely nothing on a Saturday." His brows raise and he puts a hand on either side of her cheeks, shaking his head. "Just as I thought. You _are_ completely ill."

She shakes off his contact and collapses back onto her bed, groaning. She covers her face with her blanket, hoping he won't notice the scarlet that's replaced the space his hands had been. Grace can hear a lowered chuckling before she feels the bed shift with his weight. She's sure it's his legs that have been rested over her stomach, and when she peers out of her makeshift hideaway his hands are tucked behind his head, which has found its way to her pillow.

"Make yourself at home." She teases, peeling the blanket away from her face. He's theatrical now, sighing and holding on to her pillow, pretending to snore. "Sure, go to sleep. My only company, sleeping on the job of entertaining poor, lonely Grace."

"At any rate, sober is a good look on you."

"Thanks," Her voice is softer then and he's afraid he's treaded on unwelcomed territory. He'd thought that after what had happened over the summer that she'd been alright with being honest with him. But then again this is just what he figured; little Dis-Grace always had another secret to hide. Even from him. But she turns off the darkness in her eyes as easily as a light switch and stares back at him with glimmering eyes and that upturned smirk. "You should try it some time."

"So what's the deal with this, anyway? I thought you and Abigail were like 'partners in crime' now." Grace scoffs, shaking her head in silent response. There's no other option, Ben thinks, than to pry. "You get along great, though."

"The only problem with having Abigail as a roommate is her annoyingly unwavering commitment to her tire-marked boyfriend."

"Grace!"

"Sorry. Too brutal?"

"The phrasing could have been changed up a bit." Grace looks guilty then, glancing over at her roommate's empty side of the room. It's like Sammy's glaring at her through the photo on Abigail's bedside table; a shot of them in the hospital, making silly faces at her selfie-cam. She looks away hurriedly, silently wishing her mouth had a filter installed.

"I'm just _bored,_ Dangle. It's not like I'm asking to go to every party on the Sydney Harbor, I just want out! This whole 'I'm putting you on house arrest' thing has gotten pretty old."

"Grace," Ben begins, sitting up to rest an arm on her shoulder. It's the tone of his voice that makes her roll her eyes at him, as if he's her mentor and not the friend who'd witnessed it all. "I'm not trying to defend her or anything, but don't you think Luc- _Miss Raine_ -has a right to be concerned? When I contacted her-"

"You _what?"_ He flinches at the daggers that seem to appear in her bold blue eyes and knows immediately that he should have kept his mouth shut. "You contacted her?!"

"What was I supposed to do, Grace? Let you stay in Adelaide sell yourself to those clowns? Because that's what was going to happen. I know you don't remember much but _I_ do. I remember every last bit of that night because I still wake up to nightmares about finding you, how you were-"

"Stop." Her voice cracks then, just as the foundation she'd built over best friend talk and extra training with Abigail. She'd chosen her for the comradery, sure, but also her innate skill of pretending that everything was alright. Because right now, Grace felt she would implode from the pressure of her secrecy.

"Grace, I-"

"Just do me a favor, _Benjamin,_ and stay out of my life. Save the kind and caring act because I know that's all this friendship is."

With nothing left to say _she_ leaves the room. Ben stands, stranded, and lets his eyes scan the photos on her wall. He missed the feisty, carefree dancer she'd once been. But he couldn't let himself feel regret for what he had done over holiday.

 _Lucy_ had _to know,_ He'd convinced himself time and time again, after every missed call and unanswered text. _Who knows what would have happened if she hadn't gotten herself out of Adelaide sooner?_


	4. She Enters the Room

She's having such a lovely time.

Her heart feels weightless and her body free, light and dreamy music making waves through her body. It's not quite classical, but yet it's not quite close to anything else she's heard before. The way it makes her limbs sway and explode in a flurry of perfect rhythm is something indescribable. And as she feels the music, her body moves along with it. There is no thinking, no planning, just _feeling._ It's the beauty of silent white snow and the elegance of a deer stopping to feed and the energy of a flitting songbird all in one package of seamless movement.

Abigail pirouettes and leaps and her feet hit the stage. She can't see them, but she can feel the anticipation in her audience's light gasping as she flits from one side of the stage to the other. She just barely has time to take in the scenery; blinding lights on one side and the bright orange-yellow of a painted sunset behind her. There's blackened silhouettes of trees, their winding branches seeming to mimic the line of her arms as they sway to the angelic music.

It's not until she's dipped herself a bit too far back that she realizes that she's not alone in this dance. Familiar arms circle around her waist, pulling her back up into the realm of orange sunsets. She grins upon feeling that touch, so electric and so close, and exults in the way that suddenly, her movement feels complete.

Sammy smiles back at her and continues their dance, the wind carrying her flitting songbird. He's grand, better than she's ever seen him dance. The feeling of having him lift her and twirl her in this dance of two is familiar, and yet like nothing she's ever felt before. They're connected, mind and body. When she feels the music calling for a lift he's already put her back on the ground. When he's not captivated in their dance he's enraptured in her, like there's not another care in the world.

The music is joined by a harsher, bell-like sound then, causing the dancers to stop in their tracks. Sammy puts his hands to his ears and backs away from her, disappearing into the swaying silhouettes and the orange sunset. Irritation fills this dream world. The ringing continues and the angel music stops. Abigail attempts a pirouette, hoping to will the beautiful sounds and electric feelings back into the stage. She's unsuccessful, and soon she feels her own silhouette backing into the now less-brilliant sunset.

The ringing stops.

Abigail rolls over in bed, groaning and lifting her mask from her eyes. She stretches reluctantly to her bedside table, where her phone is now resting silently. Just as her fingers grasp at the firm rubber of her case her phone begins its ringing once more. She fumbles for the green button and holds the phone to her ear while murmuring a sleepy and questioning greeting.

It's then that she's met with a horrible déjà vu.

"Abigail it's Tali, Sammy's mum. They don't know what's going on right now, why he's reacting the way he is. They asked me to come in as soon as I could. This could be it."

Silence. She can hear the rapid start of a car, the nervous breathing of his mother on the other line. She doesn't know what to say or do, she just listens. Sitting up, Abigail's met with the abrupt darkness of the night, the moon's faint glow just barely tracing the shadows of she and Grace's things. She stares, memorizing those outlines as she listens to the faint breathing on the other side of the phone. A numbing tingling takes over her face, crawling along her cheeks and the bridge of her nose and catching the breath in her throat. It travels rapidly down her neck and along her arms, prickling each individual digit until she can't move them as well. The bubbling, boiling sensations rolls along her stomach, tickles her thighs, and settles into every last bone and ligament until the room becomes fuzzy and light and she can't see those moonlit shapes anymore.

"Abigail…Abigail, can you hear me?" Her heaving breaths are the only thing keeping her awake in this moment. She can just barely make out the sound of Sammy's mum's voice, light and frantic, attempting to coach her over the phone. "Just breathe in and out. Count to five, it's alright."

"I can't…I don't…"

"Meet me by the front entrance of your dorm, I'm driving over there now."

Abigail's sitting on the curb when the white SUV rolls up. She's shock-still, even when Tali comes out of the car to urge her into her seat. She murmurs words that go through Abigail's ears, but that her brain is unable to separate from the white noise from her still-tingling form. She's buckled in and the car stars back up again, veering through the roads at rapid-fire speeds and cruising through just-barely-red lights. Tali emits a few swears that Abigail pretends not to hear, along with the forced bouts of conversation she tries to initiate. When the younger doesn't respond Sammy's mother simply stares at the road ahead, the pair willing dotted lines and street signs would lead them to a happy ending.

" _Where the hell is my son?!"_ Thin, mousey Tali is now a woman of fury, barging into the hospital and marching to the front desk with more volume Abigail's ever heard. She follows behind his mother quickly now, feeling the adrenaline kick in at the sound of wheels speeding across the linoleum flooring. She does not speak, only listens as Sammy's mother argues with the receptionist until they're told to take a seat, to which more arguing ensues. This time, it is the younger girl who puts her hand on Tali's shoulder, leading her away from reception and into a pair of empty metal chairs.

"They said we needed to say goodbye!" His mother is livid now, and Abigail half expects her to phone Sammy's father and sue the hospital right then and there. But another touch to Tali's shoulder and she levels out, putting her head in her hands while leaning into Abigail's comfort.

"It's a good thing they won't let us back. It means they're working hard enough to keep him alive." The affirmation feels cheap, and Abigail doesn't even believe herself when the words leave her own lips, but Tali nods anyway. At this point, comfort comes from being in the dark of the situation. "Did they tell you what had happened?"

"Not much," The mother shakes her head in reply, sighing. "Just a complication…a lot of medical terms I couldn't understand."

There's a bout of silence, an agreement that nothing more should be said about the fate of the boy who'd connected them. The topic was too bleak, too upsetting for the early morning hour in the white linoleum hell-hole they'd called home for the past three months. Abigail feels the exhaustion from her earlier bout of panic finally set in, and she shifts around in her seat to get more comfortable. No longer are her limbs tingling, but throbbing from exhaustion. The weight of the situation at hand catches up to her all at once. All she can manage to do is stare at the front of a blue foldaway chair in her line of vision, her eyes focusing on a grotesque stain (from what she can't quite put her finger on-nor does she want to).

"Abigail," Tali's hushed voice breaks her from her stare, and she turns to face the emotionally battered woman, the same scars of exhaustion written in her eyes. "I just wanted to thank you for coming…for being here, all the time. My son is very lucky to love you."

She wanted to cry. She felt the tears well up in her eyes; an impenetrable dam of stubbornness that would not let them track her cheeks. She opened her mouth and then closed it again, one million responses wanting to fly out all at once.

 _I've never loved anyone harder. Thank you for calling me. It means a lot that you care. I don't know if I'll be able to live if he's gone._

Abigail sucks her words back in, swallowing them with the lump in her throat. Now, she tells herself, is not the time for questions like that. Instead she finds Tali's hand, small and slight like the woman herself, and rests her own on top of it. When Sammy's eyes-a near replicate in his mother's head-meet Abigail's she manages a slight smile of reassurance. If her deep brown eyes could convey a thought, it would be this; _somehow, we'll be alright._

….

It's as if no time at all has passed when Abigail's woken from her sleep. For a moment, before she opens her eyes to the harsh white lights around her, she nearly believes that this night truly was the nightmare she'd thought before drifting off. But then Tali's voice rattles her hope and she stirs, opening her eyes rapidly and sitting up.

"We can see him now, if you'd like."

Abigail feels the immediate tug of her heart toward that door but her body is rooted in place. It's a tug-of-war that magnetizes her body to the chair; frozen and unwilling to move. She doesn't want to see what's behind that door-if he's any worse than _that night_ then she's afraid she just might lose it. But Sammy's mum looks on at her in such a doting, soothing way that her legs begin to move before she can even control them.

As they walk the doctor briefs them on everything that's happened; _wrong patient, different charts, mix-up_ … She doesn't hear any of it over the thumping of her own heart. When they arrive Sammy's father is standing in the doorway, his shoulders tensed to his cheeks and his finger waving in a doctor's face. Tali rushes up to meet him, leaving Abigail and her slow pace to place both her hands on his shoulders. She mutters something Abigail can't hear, then gestures in the direction of the hallway. He nods and takes a long, drawn-out breath and motions for the doctor to follow him.

"You do know that I'm a doctor, right?" He glances her way-his features only slightly apologetic-before rushing down the hall, the jittery, blue-clad man at his heels.

After she entered the room, she promptly closed her eyes and turned around again.

"I can't do this." Abigail manages to choke the words out before burying her face in her hands. Tali catches her, holding her while rubbing large circles on her back. The tingling begins again and she lets it take over, encasing her in numbness.

"Abigail, sweetheart, it's alright. Everything's fine, they just had a little mix-up."

She doesn't understand until she hears her name echoing through the white halls. She resurfaces from Tali's arms and whips her head around, looking through the doorway to his room. Her name is called again and she's flying, racing rapidly until she collides with the edge of his bed. Before Sammy can say another word she's grabbed both sides of his face, kissing his lips with all of the life she has left in her. His lips turn up against hers and he chuckles, bringing his own hands to her face and pulling away.

"What did I do to deserve this greeting?" Always humorous, Sammy flashes his teeth in a wide grin. "I mean, besides getting some other guy's surgery."

This earns him a swift smack on his upper arm. Abigail fervently wipes the tears from her eyes, huffing at him in response.

"I thought you were dead!"

"Ah, can't get rid of me that easily." She rolls her eyes then, but the slight glimmering of her eyes lets him know that she's not really irritated with him. He scoots over in his bed, patting the empty space so that she'll occupy it. Abigail complies, immediately resting her head on his shoulder.

It's a scene that makes Sammy's mother smile; the way Abigail's voice becomes hushed when she talks to Sammy, the way he plays with her hair as he recounts his story…her heart immediately feels full. Tali stands, just for a moment, in an attempt to capture the scene in her memory. Never has she seen her son look so happy, so complete. But it feels like intruding, looking upon this moment, and she shuts the door and departs to find her husband.

Although she's glad for the moment, she knows that Dr. Lieberman is just one curse word away from filing a law-suit.


	5. Love You Better Now

February 8th, 2013

Isa told me once that things work out the way they are; that there is nothing we can do in some situations but sit and wait. Do you know how frustrating it was? For two months I sat. I waited. I calculated every possible ending to the situations at hand and came up at a loss each time. If Sammy were to walk again, he wouldn't be able to dance, then his parents would move him far away and we would lose everything. If Sammy weren't able to walk, we'd fight constantly, and then once again our spark would slowly die out amongst our shouting matches at each other.

When I came to these conclusions often she'd ask me where I'd get such terrible ideas. Why, she wondered, did every situation have to end in our falling out? I couldn't answer her then, and I don't think that I could answer her even now. Is there just some denial in the way that I love him? I don't think so. I'd spent hours sitting by that bed, keeping him company while everyone else went on about their holidays.

Two weeks after the accident, when I'd had a total of four sessions back with Isa, (two per week, as she'd requested) I'd made little to no progress. I'd simply sat on the blue tilt-backed chaise the same way I'd sat in the metal chair next to Sammy's bed. I was unresponsive, withdrawn, and crashing fast. I remember it in blurred pictures, captured by glossed over vision and pieces of conversation I barely remember participating in. My mind at this point both flew through thoughts at a rapid pace and did nothing at all. I was empty.

Finally, on the afternoon of my fourth session (when all I had done was glance up at the clock, waiting for the moment I'd be able to drive back to Sammy) Isa put her notepad down on the side-table next to her own couch.

"Tell me about the first time you met him."

I'd told her that story only once, when I was required to see her along with the Academy's psychologist. I recounted it to my best knowledge then, this time much kinder than I was the first time. I always just assumed his intentions weren't in the right place. I was-or am, I'll say- stubborn as well. I just told her he was some guy I'd been assigned to dance with and said nothing more of it. Nothing of the rude demeanor I'd used with him, or the way I'd felt when his hands held my hips that first time we'd danced. This time, when she asked me again, I ended up using a lot more of those details-things are different now than they used to be.

A few days later, at my next session, she'd been asking me blasé questions about my days at the Academy without dancing; 'how do you _feel_ seeing your friends head to class?' 'what kinds of _emotions_ did you experience today?' I sat up straight and gave her the answers I thought would please her; 'I feel sad, but determined to recover and make it back to class.' 'More than anything I am hopeful.'

Isa never liked my rehearsed answers. So, instead of the trademark feelings and emotions questions, she'd simply asked. 'What did you do today?'

That had been the day I'd spent with Sammy. He'd tagged along with me nearly all day, from the library to rehearsal, even to my room. And I'd willingly allowed him to. I hadn't really known what his deal was-did he feel guilty? He'd mentioned that the need to tell someone what I'd confided in him was strong, and he regretted doing it. That's why, I told Isa, I let him tag along with me. He'd be gone in a day or two, and then things would be back to normal. I wasn't about to get acquainted with someone who felt guilty for being my friend, as if he'd stick around.

So then I recounted our day-I'd thought it was such a riot that Sammy stuck with me like glue, asking me questions and trying to get to know me like he actually cared. How he'd mentioned the movie we had watched at my house that night I'd snuck him in, when he came to check on me. How it had dawned on me that even after that night, when his guilt should have been all but alleviated, he still hung around.

That's when Isa gave me what I now refer to as 'the look.' It begins with her eyebrows, dark and always perfectly trimmed, raising just a fraction of an inch. Her dark, mahogany eyes are always the most noticeable change, though. They peer out from her half-closed eyelids-always through half-smeared mascara at the end of the day. She trains them on my features in a way that somehow makes me simultaneously embarrassed and irritated. Sitting in that awkward, comfortable-but-not-quite chair while she gives me 'the look' has become more of a weekly issue. Back then, when I was sixteen and trying to put my life back together, it made the skin on my face tickle with the familiar sensation of burning embarrassment.

"What?" I remember asking, and the look intensified. She wasn't happy with me during much of our meetings back then. Isa, the brutally honest, was the match I'd finally had to meet.

I can't remember much of the words she said that day, so I'll just paraphrase from what I do remember;

 _Look at your story from the perspective of a bystander…give this guy the benefit of the doubt… people aren't always the way you portray them to be…_

It took me a long time to follow that advice. As I'm flipping through old journals a year later, listening to Sammy's heart monitor as I read, I realize I'm still nowhere near being fully able to trust. After all, what's the point of trust, love, and support if it just leads to me sitting bedside in a hospital waiting for answers? What's the point of it all if all I'll get in return is the crushing blow of heartbreak, especially so close to the most important year of our lives?

I know that when I see Isa next I'll have to hash out these feelings. It's a twice-a-week tug-of-war with her, really. I sit there and pretend like I'm fine until she reminds me that she knows me, and that ' _everything is safe to say in my office. Free of judgement, remember?'_

But how the hell do I tell her that the thought of Sammy dying terrifies me to the point where I can't imagine a world without him? That I'd rather die now than live through that pain?

When I got that call from his mum last night, it was…it was like living the horror of that day over again. It was every nightmare that's run through my head since seeing him battered in that hospital bed, only played out in real life. Which lead me to (stupidly) opening my big mouth and just letting all of the tension and the stress from last night go in a long-winded rant with Isa this afternoon.

So she thinks I need to start communicating more with him in terms of how things have made me feel, and how the situation has affected our relationship. As if we didn't just get back together the night before he got hit by a car. As if that isn't some sort of magical karma telling me that it probably isn't going to last again. This is the kind of talk that would earn me 'the look,' but honestly who am I kidding here? The only person that even knows we're back together outside of his family is Grace, who is totally supportive but probably wouldn't have judged me so hard anyway.

I'll be honest here. It's been really hard to be around him lately. It's not that he's a downer-he's the opposite, actually. Even after going into _someone else's surgery_ he's still so stupidly optimistic that he's talking about tour, and how great it'll be to be on the road together with everyone. Every little success he has makes him even more excited, but he can't see what's on the outside like I can. I was there when his casts came off. I was there the first time he got to really move his hand again. I witnessed his first step-and-stumble, where he fell and immediately looked up at me from his place on the floor.

So there. I'm going to say it right now, in the margins of my Moleskine where 'everything is safe.'

I can't watch him be in pain much longer.

It's not that I have complete mistrust in the doctors, but Sammy's optimism just keeps getting sadder. It's like he can't see where he's come from, or why he's even having to recover in the first place. We still haven't got a clue who was driving the car that hit him. We don't have a concrete answer to any of his questions, and he seems to be perfectly fine about it. I know that he wants to dance, though. I can see it in his eyes, scanning through old videos of us at the studio. I can hear it in his voice when he asks about my first class of third year-longing, pain…It's the pain I know he heard in my own voice when our roles were reversed; when he was sitting at my bedside during first year, when I'd been fed through an IV for weeks before being sent home for bedrest. It's that feeling of having to wait; the time will come, they promise, when you'll be able to dance again. Not now, but soon. Always soon.

Except with Sammy, nothing is a written guarantee.

 _Re-hash the moment_ , that's my homework for this week. _Bring yourself back to that day and let yourself feel as much as you can._

When I got that call…when I heard his mom on the other line, telling me it might be the last time I see him…I still have nightmares about that morning. The feeling of waking up to the sun on my shoulders, feeling the weightlessness of bare skin on cotton sheets and the lingering memory of the night before…all to come crashing down when my phone rang.

She was crying when I answered the phone. I could barely understand her, but I couldn't ask her a single question. I was numb, unable to form any kind of coherent thought. It's like I knew that something was wrong, but couldn't bring myself to think it. Then a different voice came on the phone, low and affirmative, asking me to please come to Sydney hospital to say goodbye to Samuel.

I was in a constant state of wondering how much of Sammy I would be able to remember. Before I left for the hospital I got up and dressed, standing in the middle of his empty room. The sun felt strange on my shoulders now, almost taunting me. I let myself have this moment; scanning the room and just trying to remember what it had felt like to be with him, to feel his hands on my body and the warmth that radiated from his smile. In his room, in this moment, I could almost exactly capture the sound of cotton hitting the floor, of gentle eyes and soft whispered words and "I've missed you" murmured over and over again. And for a moment, it was like I hadn't received a call at all. It's like I stood there, just waiting for him to come back through that door.

But he didn't.

I left his room for the last time. I snuck one of his old, worn out long-sleeved shirts from its place folded up on his desk chair. It was the one he coveted, its black fabric softened and drained of its color from the multitude of wash loads it'd been through. I just slipped it into my bag and ran to the bus stop, a thief with honest intentions.

It was the one thing I really wanted, if saying goodbye was really about to happen. It was something simple, something to keep the night in my memory forever. The smell of his skin lingered in every last stitch of that fabric, and even now it still brings me back to that night, and every day before when we were together.

When I let myself feel as much as I can, it becomes too much. I can't sit here in his shirt and not remember every single detail of that night. I've replayed it over and over in my head involuntarily, on nights where the beeping and the wheeling of hospital carts and his shallow breathing from the ventilator haunt me to sleep. There isn't a magic cure for the brand of pain I've been feeling lately. There's no way to erase that night from my memory, no matter how much I try.

But I guess this little homework isn't about traumatizing me all over again. It isn't about erasing the memory from my mind; just about remembering it for the sparse good feelings it brought along with it. The moment he woke up, choking out a breath that began with the syllables of _my_ name…not Kat's, not Tara's… _mine._ My heart has never quite leapt out of my chest the way it did that night. Not when I got accepted into the academy, not when I won supreme dancer at competition when I was five… _This_ moment, with his eyes half opened and locked on mine and his hand stretched out as far as it could go…This moment is the reason I have to remember the accident.

So once again, Isa was right. At the root of everything that has happened, remembering the accident and that night make this whole experience worth it. Because I know that we can survive this, even if his boundless optimism drives me crazy.

I wish I didn't need him, but I do. This is why I never wanted to get involved in relationships. Ten year old Abigail was smart; she knew what she wanted and wouldn't take no for an answer or stop for a moment to even glance sideways at a boy like Sammy. Then again, ten year old Abigail never knew what it was like to be loved by him.


	6. Steal My Shadow

She didn't want to get up.

The day was young; a bit too premature for her taste. Darkness enveloped the room with the exception of the muted glow of what Grace knew was a slivered sun just barely poking over the horizon. Her limbs splayed out over her bed in all directions, magnetized to her mattress with such a ferocity that even a herculean effort to climb out of her covers seemed an impossible task. She pictured the day in a straight line; cardio, strength, breakfast, classes, lunch, classes, dinner, and bed. A straight line, no room for deviation.

She groaned and covered her face with her pillow, letting the floppy and overused object bock out the annoyance of that first sliver of sunlight.

"Come _on,_ Grace." Her roommate stood at the edge of her bed, and from what her lousy depth perception could tell she was getting closer. The sunlight was back and Grace groaned even louder, squeezing her eyes shut against the horrible offense.

" _You_ come on! It's been half a second since you came back from your nightly excursion to god knows where. At least let me sleep. Maybe if I sleep long enough I'll out-sleep the routine!" She smirks and Abigail rolls her eyes, smacking her over the head with her pillow. But the impish blonde does not move from her place in bed, merely sticking her tongue out at Abigail in retaliation.

"I have to tell you what happened last night, it's important. Like, orange-level important. Life-changing important."

"…Orange level important?" Her eyebrows elevate with curiosity. Her blue eyes shine with the possibility of what Abigail could possibly have to say about her mysterious night out.

It's been one week since the morning Grace Whitney woke up to her roommate's bed completely empty. One week since Abigail had come fumbling in the next morning, looking completely wrecked and setting off immediate alarm bells in her mind. Seven days since Grace had sprung out of bed, dashed over to her roommate, and demanded answers she hoped she wasn't guessing right.

She prayed that Abigail wasn't caught up somehow in the same type of shit that'd landed her 1,375 kilometers away from home. But she'd been wrong last time, and made her roommate burst into tears and look the other way. Abigail Armstrong wasn't the type to break curfew, only for things like near-death experiences and hospital visits that ran too late. But by the way that she was kind-of-sort-of blushing and biting back a grin Grace could only guess that her first two assumptions were wrong. This was definitely not the exhausted, late night hospital visit Abigail with dark-ringed eyes and constant yawns. This also wasn't 'Grace After Dark,' sneaking out to go to shows with her shadow completely enveloping her, losing herself and 'causing trouble' the way everybody seemed to claim.

Orange level…orange level was something special.

They'd begun to describe their feelings as colors almost as naturally as their friendship had progressed. On their third late night staying up and talking, they'd begun this little system as a way to keep each other in check. Each color was assigned to a specific pack of feelings; the alpha making the color choice more than its associated feelings. Everything red was felt with intensity; seething anger or wild passion, things that drove them mad and kept them up at night. Black was one of the more alarming feelings; a black day called for a night wrapped in blankets, tucked away from the world. Determined by Abigail and Grace's scale, feeling black was feeling the void…being surrounded by that shadow that followed them wherever they went, the desolation of abandonment and the empty loneliness that followed.

But this was an orange day…a sensation of feeling one million things at one time. Rushes of emotions bombarding the senses until the mind is giddy with excitement or whirling with the anxiety of the unknown. And _that_ made Grace roll her covers down and sit cross legged on her bed, waiting anxiously for an explanation.

"We're going on a run," Abigail's lips are sealed then and she grins teasingly, tossing Grace her sneakers. "I'm not telling you anything until you get up. Come on, we're working toward 'good influence Grace,' aren't we?"

She simply rolls her eyes in response, climbing out of bed one long limb at a time before stumbling over to her dresser.

"This had better be good."

Oh, was her story one for the record books. As it turned out, an orange day for Abigail was the textbook definition of everything Grace missed about what she now termed 'life before Adelaide. Sammy had been released from the hospital a week after the surgery mishap, and as it turns out Abigail had really snuck out to see him under the false pretense that he was still in the hospital.

"I felt really terrible for lying," She explained, her pink sneakers in perfect rhythm on the pavement. "But at the same time I'm probably the only one here who hasn't lied about going out so…"

"Karmic balance." Grace beams in agreement as she runs alongside her, her mind racing and aching to hear more of the story. "Screw Lucy, it's been four months with Sammy in the hospital. You deserve to have a little fun."

Abigail's face turns that same shade of pink, and Grace amps up the teasing.

"You had _a lot_ of fun then, didn't you?" Her companion is quiet, biting on her lower lip and staring straight ahead as she runs. Grace keeps perfect time with her, continually glancing over with an impish grin on her face. She pushes. "Come _on,_ Abs, I'm _dying_ over here. It's bad enough that I'm stuck on house arrest. You could at least allude to what happened on your sneaky night out. I've got to live vicariously through you. Good example Grace, remember?"

"Alright fine." She complies, much to Grace's joy. She slows down her pace but continues to look away from her roommate, taking a contemplative breath. The longer Abigail takes to begin her story the more Grace wants to hear it. She feels her limbs move faster with the anticipation of an adventure- _any_ adventure, even if it is not her own.

She described the monotony of the day; classes routines...muddling through her words as if they were a dense puddle of mud. Grace listened attentively at first, then made a face and cleared her throat.

"I was with you all day, remember?" She chides, shaking her head. "Don't make me live the boredom over again. Just get to the good parts."

The way she describes sneaking out in the middle of the night makes Grace feel the familiar rush of reckless abandon she craves so badly. The dark of night, creeping down creaking hallways and fumbling over the noisy stairs until finally, that sense of freedom hits. The second the cold air made its way onto Abigail's already goose-bumped skin she breathed a sigh of relief along with the story, as if the moment was one of her many and not Abigail's first. The brunette recounts the bus route to Sammy's in more than vivid detailing; a bit about a sleepwalking passenger making Grace stop in her tracks for a moment to catch her breath. When they're running again she feels as if she's running through that same night, the adrenaline coursing through her veins as the wind whips through her hair.

"I had a late sort of dinner with Sammy and his mum and brother, then she went out to bring him to some sort of bar mitzvah meeting…"

"Ooh, so you were _alone,_ " She teases, puckering her lips at Abigail. Her companion merely pretends not to see, focusing just on the familiarity of the trail ahead.

The rush of immersion comes back to Grace…candlelight, coziness…no, wait, starlight and bushwalking. Just on the trail outside of his house, but still…enough to emulate plenty of her own memories. He'd trodden along the path plenty of times, but ambled slower now due to his recovery. But he was walking, she'd said, and the night had been so perfect and clear that neither of them paid any attention to his pace. She could feel the swaying of the unkempt grass tickle her bare legs, running and running and _yes, I know_ Abigail _was walking but still…_ The memory felt so clear, so akin to her own that she had to pause and take a rest on a bench by the harbor.

"Just a minute," She managed through her tightening throat. "I must be tired from worrying about _you_ all night."

But it was the nightmare all over again; bare legs on grass, a clear night sky…the petrochor released from the now dampened soil underneath her. Bare feet scrambling to find a hold, sunk in the mire and slackening her pace until she's sick to her stomach searching for an escape. Her heart leaps with the memory, quickening its pace as if she's still in that night, still in that place she'd stumbled along through holiday.

"And when I woke up he was there, and we were still in that treehouse…so we ran the whole way back to his house and snuck through the back door-you would've been so proud of me, Grace-and pretended we'd been there the entire night." Grace shakes herself from her memories and slaps a plastic grin on her face. The proud friend, the one who couldn't quite shake the name _dis_ Grace or the reputation it'd left behind. She evens her breathing as Abigail continues, lost in her own, more peaceful reverie.

"But the thing is, we'd done it before...but this time, it just felt so real. Like the first time, when we'd tried, we were just stupid first years following some guideline we both thought we had to. And then our _actual_ first time was like…it was like trying to make up for lost time. Like we'd both been wanting to say a million things to each other and after his dance they just had to be said." Abigail fumbles over her words now but Grace is still drawn in. The scarlet blush that takes over her roommate's cheeks and the shining in her eyes in turn make the blonde feel happier. The emotions that radiate from Abigail's memory drown Grace's shadowed past, nearly making her forget the harrowing comparison between the two.

"Last night…it's effortless. I feel like we've been together so long even though I know we haven't. And I feel stupid for even thinking it, but I feel like we _could_ be together for the rest of our lives. Things like this don't work out, but there's nothing wrong with holding out hope, right?"

It's that very phrase that brings Grace back from the happy place of Abigail's memories; the grass no longer bristles her feet and the mire she'd been stumbling through begins to trap her up again, catching her shadow and holding it strong within her heart. But Abigail remains smiling, blissful and at peace, and it gives the blonde a sense of comfort. If one of the 'Twisted Sisters' gets to feel this elated, then hope remains for herself.

"You'll get your happy ending, Abs." She lifts herself from the bench, giving her calf a quick stretch before gesturing for her roommate to follow suit. "I'll personally make sure of it."

"You know, all of this reasonable behavior is scaring me." Abigail teases as she gets up, starting back on their run. Grace laughs, forcing her shield to cover her shadow once more. Maybe with all of this running, she thinks sardonically, she'll finally be able to run away from her past.


	7. Many Times Before

She sits, leaning against the wall, like there is no reason to try to support the weight of her own body anymore. The breeze that blows from the fresh ocean air would have refreshed even the most bitter at heart, but did nothing to Grace Whitney. It only blew her blonde hair-wavy by both nature and the saltiness in the air-in every direction. Small tendrils whacked against her cheeks and her nose repeatedly, stinging and burning just slightly. It did not discomfort her. In fact, she barely even noticed. She simply let her feet bury deeper into the sand, keeping her eyes trained on the waves.

It's a game of sorts, a way to keep her mind occupied with other things. Every time the ocean draws the water into itself she breathes in. Her breathing matches the rhythm of the waves, in and out as the tide goes. When she breathes out the tide comes toward her, waves curling and foaming and collapsing upon themselves, stretching out as far as they can until they dissipate into the wet sand. Grace watches, blank, as the process of nature repeats itself.

She cannot bring herself to get up from this sand, although her butt hurts from sitting in this same pile of sand, and her spine has begun to dig into the wall. She doesn't mind the sun on her body, harsh and omnipresent. She doesn't mind the quiet-only the sound of the waves have been the soundtrack to this morning.

The company isn't bad either; a few groups of people have passed her since she's arrived, and none have even spared her a second glance. There was the couple, young and in love, who'd been sharing an ice cream when they'd crossed her perfect vision of the shore. The man was doting and the woman keeping her arm around his back, leaning into him every so often. She paid little attention to them. There was then a single man, jogging along the water with a pair of headphones on. He kept an excellent pace, but the shadow dotting his chin and his puffed out chest made her watch him, knees pulled up to her chest, until he disappeared from her sight. Other than that there was nobody…no one to talk to her, no one to sit with, and no one to care…

And she was just fine with that.

Class would just be getting out now. Grace could feel the internal schedule that had been drilled into her mind letting her know. Had people been wondering about her? Had they been worrying about where she had been? She doubted it. Although Abigail seemed concerned for her last night, when she hadn't said a word during their nightly vent session, Grace knew she'd let it go. The only person she had to worry about was Lucy…she'd be furious that Grace had skipped class again. It would be another trip to her office, chatting over tea and bagels and pretending everything is alright.

But it's not. Grace knows that everything is not alright, but she can't bring herself to do anything about it. As she slips farther into the black days, the shadow days, she can't do anything but let herself sink. And right here, on this beach, it's as if she can't _feel_ anything. There's no regret over skipping class, no happiness over Sammy's recovery…not even an inkling of pain regarding the memories of holiday that have haunted her every thought. No, right now Grace Whitney can't make herself feel anything. _That,_ she thinks, should terrify her the most.

The real horror lingers in the shadows, only coming out when the moon is high and even the crickets have gone to sleep. It creeps along her dreams, dusting them with darkness and clouding them with the insecurities that hide behind her daytime smile. It's laced between words that echo over and over again in the hollowness of her mind; _I should have never followed in your footsteps. Look what I've become._

 _I'm dirty,_

 _Rotten,_

 _Useless…_

 _Nobody will want something that is broken. Nobody wants something that is battered, used. The solution is obvious, Grace. Just quit while you're ahead. That's what your mother did, isn't it? You wanted to be just like her, and now look who you've become…_

She's been snapping herself out of these thoughts quite a lot lately, sitting up in bed with clammy hands and a forehead dripping with sweat. Grace has been waking up crying, tears making tracks down her face and marking her pillow with feelings that will disappear with the flip of a pillow. _I'm fine,_ she tucks herself back into bed, _this is all just a nightmare._

But the nightmares have been coming during the day, the shadows finding their way into her mind and her soul until she doesn't even know who she is anymore. There's no use in going to class-she's already trained up to be just like her mother, so why bother being anything else? And making friends with Abigail-what a joke! The girl who has absolutely none of her life together becoming friends with the girl who's got a stable boyfriend and working therapy? Grace Whitney actually _having_ a friend? She laughs sardonically at the concept. Abigail's feels close, but Abigail doesn't know the whole story. Nobody does. If she finds out …if Grace lets her in completely, she expects the brunette will run away faster than everybody else did; that her back will turn just as it should. Because really, in this shadow world, does the queen of the black days even deserve such a friend?

Grace sits until the orange glow of the sunset dusts the beach in the soft light of the end of another day. She smooths her blonde hair, gnarled by the earlier whipping wind, in attempts to fix its messiness. When it won't tame she pulls half of it up into a ponytail, uncaring, and lifts herself up from the sand. For a moment she stands, stoic, and stares at the imprint of her butt in the sand. She'd been there all day, just sitting. 12 waking hours of staring at the waves and listening to their pull and release, just breathing.

Even after a day of doing nothing, Grace Whitney still does not feel better.

She dusts herself off; legs, feet, and butt, and begins her trek back to the dorms. When she reaches the pavement she straps sandals to her feet, looking up to see the throng of people in front of her. There seem to be hundreds of them; men, women, children…human beings living their individual lives. Some wear business attire and carry briefcases, hurrying to their next destination while talking in rapid pace through their Bluetooth headsets. Packs of teenagers traipse from shop to shop, hoping to catch the last fleeting moments of the day. They hold phones in one hand and each other's hands in the other; gaggles of girls with their arms interlocked, mobs of guys licking ice cream cones from the shop down the street. Mothers walk with their feet-dragging children, tired from their long days of play. Everyone chats and mingles, rushes to get where they need to be. Everyone has their own life, with feelings and emotions and thoughts…and then she sees him.

Well, it looks like him. He's across the street, just coming out of a sushi shop. In one hand he carries a brown paper bag, in the other his sunglasses. His striking blue eyes scan the street, seeming to search the crowd, and she ducks her head as a reflex. He still has those biceps-she can feel them now, the way they wrapped around her…powerful, sure of his actions. His chin is still dotted with that same stubble, prickling and itching, insulting. Her pulse begins to race. He's starting toward her direction. Her long legs pick up speed, heading toward the Academy and opposite the direction of the man. A familiar tingling sensation begins in the tips of her fingers, and she attempts to wiggle it out. _No. I won't let this affect me._ But her breathing hitches in her throat and her chest heaves in and out, unable to be controlled by her dizzying mind. But her body soon bumps into something plush, and arms grip her shoulders. In a frenzy she fights, flailing her limbs and slapping at the force until she hears a familiar tone.

"Grace? Grace, it's Ben. It's alright, it's just me!" His voice dissipates her frenzy, pulling her into the present. She's in the middle of the sidewalk, just a mile away from the beach. Her feet ache from all the running, and her body sinks with the immediate weight of her exhaustion coupled with the relief of hearing his voice. He catches her, holding her to his chest as her body shakes with the low whimpering that's disguising her cry. Ben rubs soothing circles on her back, not knowing what else to do in that moment. When she pulls away from him she's forcing a smile, but anybody would be able to see through it. Big tough Grace's lips barely move an inch from terrified, and so he wraps his arm around her shoulder and begins to lead her home.

"You can talk to me, you know." Ben's nearly choking on his words, and she can tell. His voice is wobbling but he's maintaining a calm façade just as well as he's maintaining the hold on her shoulder. He doesn't want her to go anywhere as much as she doesn't want him to leave.

"I know." It's all she can manage to get out without crying again. Exhausted, she leans her head toward Ben's chest, letting him pull them along on their walk to the dorms. Grace is too tired to care about vulnerability now.

"What happened in Adelaide…"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"I know, but you should. Not to me-I mean, unless you wanted to, of course. But to someone. You really should talk to someone, Grace."

"I know…it's just…" She pauses, unsure of a way to publicly phrase her private thoughts. She could trust him, she knew she could. Hell, he'd proved his trust time and time again in that short week in Adelaide. But he was Ben. He was normal, and cute, and not twisty at all. If he knew she was in that headspace again…if he had been inside her head this week…

But he was Ben, and she'd never have him like Abigail had Sammy, or Tara had Christian. He was nice, and he'd saved her, but that was it. She was Grace and she was twisty, and dark, and she had Adelaide. He knew too much to like her like that. So instead of doing what she wanted; trusting him, letting him hold her like that, telling him about the nightmares and the shadows, she pulls away.

"I guess it's just complicated." She walks close to him, but doesn't let him hold her anymore. Because Grace Whitney is broken, and who would want to love a broken girl with a tendency for hanging out on hotel balconies?


	8. She Lays Down

February 14, 2013

This week, I opened up in therapy for the first time without even being prompted. I was so happy to see the sigh of relief on Isa's face, but I still think she wasn't entirely convinced that I was telling the truth. Which I was, this time. I'm very happy where I am in my life, and for once I'm sharing that happiness in therapy. I'm not closing down, I'm not completely lying…I'm being open and genuine. But of course, because I've been labeled as a 'therapist pleaser' and because my eating disorder is 'the sneaky, deceiving disorder,' I've been tasked to a few little writing exercises. So fun. Basically, I have to finish the sentences and really _connect_ with my inner mind to see how I'm really feeling. As if I can't just be happy for once.

Today, I feel happy. I feel hopeful, and I feel sure. I'm so happy I have Sammy and Grace and sessions with Isa to keep myself on track. Sammy's coming back to the Academy soon, and he's starting third year training. He may be a few weeks behind, but I'm sure that he'll be able to pull it off as long as he works hard. He's just one of those people who can do anything they set their minds to. And lately, he's set some pretty big goals.

He's talked about third year tour ever since he woke up in that hospital. I don't blame him; we've all been thinking about it since first year, when the third years came back and talked on and on about how much fun they had. I know he wants to go, but I'm a little afraid he might push himself too hard trying to get there. It's his scene, after all…the bonding, the 'unforgettable friendships' to be forged. But he needs to start putting his health first instead of this stupid tour. We aren't even that close to auditions and already he's freaking out as if they're tomorrow. It's driving me crazy.

I brought up our little impromptu 'bushwalk' with Isa too. Not all of the details, of course, but just enough to let her on to what happened. It was one of the most beautiful, romantic nights of my life and of course I'm kind of still reeling in it a little. I mean, when did I become the girl who sneaks out just to see some boy in the middle of the night?

I mean, he's not 'some boy' in any measure of the phrase but still, when did I start valuing him so highly and why don't I care? I can hear my past-self lecturing my current-self over and over again in my head, but it doesn't really bother me anymore. I'm still dancer. I'm still working to get into the company. I'm still Abigail, I've just got a little extra part of myself now. He made me believe in love, and I don't mind it one little bit.

But enough with the sappiness, because I'm supposed to be working out my feelings here and filling up half a notebook with 'oh my god, I really just love Sammy' still isn't something I would do, even if it's true and I probably could.

…So, the treehouse sex. I'm still feeling mixed up about it, and I don't know why. I don't know whether I doubt our relationship, myself, Sammy, or everything. I'm tired of feeling so muddled about things that I'm not even unsure about. Because I _do_ love Sammy. The thing that confuses me is that it wasn't our first time having sex. I don't know what changed between the last time and this time (other than the accident, which is a big deal, but…) but for me to have all of these mixed emotions has been so overbearing that I don't know how to process it.

I would be lying (and dear Isa would be throwing her well-worn emerald green heels at my deceitful self) if I said that my body isn't part of these uncertain feelings. Because isn't that where all of my problems stem from? It's like I can't lead a normally functioning life anymore. I can't even have a normal relationship because I'm trying to make sure I look 'skinny enough' while my boyfriend tells me how much he loves me; while he tries to make things work 'that way' when he just got his last casts off a week ago. I'm not an idiot, I know somewhere deep down that I'm probably fine and just over exaggerating things. I know I'm not fat. (I know that I'm supposed to tell myself I'm not fat) I'm supposed to be telling myself wonderful things; pretty words written in cursive on my mirror just like the other girls at Linley Ridge learned to do. I wonder if they still carry those ideals with them, even two years after inpatient. I wonder if _they_ have boyfriends, too. I wonder if they still curse the mirror the same way we all did; turning our bodies side to side, lifting and poking at skin and limbs and begging it all to just disappear.

I wonder if any of us will make it out of this hellhole in our heads.

I think that all of the happiness of this week; Sammy coming out of the hospital, our night, classes going so well...I think this happiness has brought forth some other things with it. So I guess Isa's right, I can't just be happy. There's always an extra little kicker waiting right around the corner. To sucker-punch me in the gut, that is.

I also have been getting a really listless kind of vibe from Grace lately, and it's been worrying me so much that I haven't been sleeping. I know the kinds of things that she's going through, and I don't want her to have to be going through it all the time. But what's weirder is her friendship with Ben. Or her _not_ friendship with Ben, or whatever he's decided he's allowing it to be this week. I hate the way he drags Grace along. I hate that he makes her so happy one day, and so miserable the next. I used to tolerate him because Sammy kind of took him under his wing last year, but now I just can't. I have a best friend now, and it's my job to tell him to back the hell off and leave her alone.

But I can't. Because he knows something-something even _I_ don't know, and I think he's holding it over her head. I'm not an idiot; I know that Grace's sugar-coated story about what happened over holiday isn't 100% true. The Grace _I_ know wouldn't just 'want to buckle down' and 'get serious about dancing.' She wouldn't accept house arrest without a fight, no matter how close she and Lucy are. And I know she misses partying. She won't stop trying to live through me, and I only snuck out once. It's like she's trying to get me to do worse things because she's living off some second-hand thrill ride. But I'm not sneaking out anymore-there won't be a need once Sammy finally comes back, and I don't get drunk off the feeling like she does.

Speaking of drunk, I'm _also_ aware that Grace sneaks vodka into her water when she thinks I'm not looking, but what do I even say about that? It's not my place to say anything just like it's not hers when I don't eat up to plan. But I think it's time for a check-in, for both of our sanity.

We did them a lot in the beginning of the year, when Grace was adjusting to life without sneaking and partying and shit. She'd come in from class and close the door, lowering the blinds of our hallway window before even taking off her shoes. And she'd sit on the floor-always the floor, for some reason-and just look at me. The first time she did it I just kind of stared at her, confused as to why the hell my roommate was just sitting on the floor with her backpack still on her back. But then she'd look at me, and there's this way her eyes sort of gloss over that lets me know she's had a bad day. It's a cross between sadness and emptiness and sometimes searing anger that just doesn't belong on a spitfire like Grace Whitney. Ever. And so then she just says "I need to check in with you."

And then we talk about the things we've done 'wrong…' Like for me, it's the days when I'm at my breaking point with stress or something and I feel like I'm going to snap. It's the dizziness and the lack of focus and the unbearable headaches that make me actually admit that I haven't eaten. And for once I actually have someone to talk to, which has been really helpful. I mean, I can talk to Isa but that's required. And I can talk to Sammy, but he gets really tense and worried and it's just not something I need to put him through. It's bad enough that he knows I still struggle sometimes. So I talk to Grace, and she talks to me.

She says that in the grand scheme of it all, we all do things for temporary happiness. On days when I'm the one checking in with her, I think she's right. Why bother doing anything if that happiness is only temporary…if everything ends? But _she_ explained what she means by using herself. All of this running and sneaking and lying she does gives her a thrill. But it's different. For Grace, a 'thrill' is feeling normal. A 'thrill' is the absolute neutral happiness that anybody might have on a daily basis. But for me, the thrills she's been trying to get me to do are one of those 90 degree Japanese rollercoasters that go 0 to 60 in less than 30 seconds. It's too much for me, but for Grace it's just a way to feel normal.

Which is why I have to initiate a check in tonight. _I_ have some things to work through, but I need her to focus on herself and what she's been doing. If she keeps up this whole drinking thing, she'll throw away her life. And it's not me trying to be controlling this time, I know because my whole heart aches when I smell that acidity in her water bottle. It's just me, trying to get my friend to get a hold of herself. This time, I really have to help her. In the beginning, 'good example Grace' and 'loosened up Abbi' were just stupid nicknames. But now Grace needs me, and I have to put away all of this restricting and all of my excitement over Sammy's return and just focus on her.

It's not my _job_ to watch over Grace. Lucy made that perfectly clear to me. But it's my _responsibility_ as her best friend to make sure she doesn't tip herself over the deep end. Because now I care, and now it's personal.

So I guess I'm not just happy. Underneath it all, there's about 5 million emotions running through my brain all at once. But I have to let the happiness win. I have to be that cheesy girl from Linley Ridge, the one who lied and faked her way through three months of inpatient treatment. Because Grace needs me, and I need her. The two of us can't go down without a fight.


	9. But the Monsters Turned Out

_Once, when I was around ten years old, my dad dated a woman who worked haunted houses during the Halloween season. She wasn't one of the scary ones, all dressed in black and torn up clothes. She was a guide, meant to tell the story of the house and how it came to be haunted. So of course I went, and I brought a bunch of my friends from dance along for the trip. I never told them that this woman was dating my dad…they didn't need to know that._

 _I'd thought that she was nothing less than remarkable, this woman who could weave stories out of thin air and take the breath right out of us. As the monsters danced around us she'd stayed calm and collected. And I stayed staring in awe, wondering just how I'd gotten so lucky that my dad had finally chosen someone cool to date; someone who cared. Plus, she had the_ coolest _job of any of his other girlfriends._

 _But then I'd seen her, stone cold and staring from her place at the kitchen table as my father stumbled in drunk once again. And as he came toward me, he transformed. His long limbs became serpents, thrashing and fumbling as they searched through the fog for their target. The connection of his flesh and mine was like venom; searing, numbing as I fought tears. But I was ten and shaking from fear, searching for a reason behind my father's malicious glare and why he was calling me by my mother's name instead of my own._

 _"It's just me, daddy, it's Grace!"_

 _"You're just like your mother. You'll end up like her in the end, you'll see."_

 _The onslaught of slurred words was carnal; there was no chance in fighting him now, I knew that. But the way he'd talked about my mother, the way his words spit like fire into my soul…it only made me want to be more like her. My father had never even said 'boo' to me before she'd died. Now, it seemed 'boo' would be the least of my worries._

 _And then this new woman who I'd so revered; who'd enraptured me with her whimsical haunted house tales, became real. Gone was the make-up and the enchantment of the night, and along with that left the shining-eyed enchantress. In her place stood a true monster. Her laughter reverberated across the kitchen like nails on a chalkboard. And it wasn't until she'd come closer; until I'd smelt the familiar foul, almost medicinal stench coming from her breath. She'd joined in._

 _A ten year old girl was left without an advocate. Just like the eight and nine year old before her. It was always in these moments that I thought there was no way I could miss my mother any more. But that belief always only lasted a few hours. Because at that age, I'd realized something; people and places don't need ghosts to be haunted. Sometimes, all they need are memories._

…

It's nearly sunrise; the last white glowing of the moon trickles in through the slats in their shades, and Abigail focuses on them intently. One…two…three..she counts them over and over, forcing her mind to let go of the thoughts that have been bombarding her brain for the past few hours. It's nearly sunrise, she thinks as she begins to count again, and the bed beside her is still empty.

Grace's bed is still empty and she needs her. She needs her best friend like she needs the sleep that attempts once more to magnetize her eyelids shut. But Grace isn't here, and Abigail is panicking. One, two, three…She lets the methodical process of counting the muted slits of moonlight drown out her thoughts. That is, of course, until her mind takes over once again. It's very hard to control the aching in her soul; the way she's drawn back to that moment in the bathroom, 1am and fighting off tears, aching for the comfort of a check-in with her best friend.

But she's still not home.

She had been woken up from a deep sleep and peaceful dreams, dancing Don Quixote once more on that beautiful stage. And for a while she felt that peace linger; an idyllic, calming feeling washed over her entire body while a blissful smile played on her soft features. But then she heard the creaking of the floorboards, and that idyllic dream shattered. Abigail lifted her face mask and rolled over inconspicuously in bed, feigning sleep. Her vision was met with long, hurrying legs, stepping into a familiar black romper. Dainty hands laced up black combat boots, and a head of bouncing blonde curls just barely masked an expression of hushed anticipation-of knowing the exact implications of what she was getting herself into. Grace checked her phone, hiding the harsh light from where her roommate was tucked into bed. _Clever,_ Abigail thought as the held in her breath. _But not clever enough. What are you hiding, Grace Whitney?_ But before Abigail could lift the mask off her face; before she could sit up, calmly, and initiate a check-in, Grace pulled a locked trunk from underneath her bed.

The key is hinged around her neck, held in place by a simple silver chain and hidden by several other seemingly useless pendants. She pulls it from her neck, casting another glance over to Abigail, before unlocking the trunk. Pulling out a large glass bottle, she removes something from the purse hanging from her shoulder. _A flask,_ adorned with black fringe that sways, almost menacingly, in the bright moonlight. As she listens to the unsettling sound of clear ambrosia dripping and splashing into the deceitful container she wants nothing more than to speak up, to say something more. But as much as her mind wills her to do just that, her body stays rooted to the comfort and safety of her bed.

 _I'll talk to her when she gets home,_ Abigail sighs, ignoring the tightening in her chest. _Maybe I'll talk to Isa first, see what she thinks…No. No, I need to do this now. I need to-_

The door creaks shut and Abigail knows it's too late. The sinking feeling consumes her, and she wills it away with the counting of sheep.

Which leads her to this moment; 3 a.m, sitting up in bed with a sinking heart and a churning stomach. She should have woken her up right when _she'd_ needed to talk. Then, it would have been simple. Then, it would have been easy…well, easier. They'd probably still be holed up in the middle of the floor, going over the pros and the cons of the situation at hand.

Well, shit.

And she couldn't call Sammy. Not yet, not until she was absolutely sure that the sinking feeling in her gut-the churning of her stomach and rolling of her nerves-was true. But she wouldn't try and figure it out now-not with so many other things going on. Besides, Abigail surmised as she swung her legs over the side of her bed, it's not like her worries were actually going to be true.

…

Grace had never felt so alive; the wind in her hair was sharp and biting, tickling at her legs and urging her to move faster. And so she did. She ran, clutch in one hand while the other kept her steady, as far as her long legs would take her. It was only a few hundred feet to the bus stop and three minutes 'til the next one would roll in; she'd memorized the route from her years of trysts along the city. The familiar thrill of the night wrapped her in the company of a spine-tingling sort of happiness. It made her feel limitless; weightless, almost. In the dark of the night, in the middle of this city, it was as if nobody could touch her; as if _he_ couldn't touch her anymore.

The night gave her cover that her bedroom could not. Here, she was not weighed down with the mundanity of a mind-numbing routine. Her eyes were not trained to some clock, waiting for the next shift of a routine she had been roped into to come along. She wasn't lying in bed, listless and lifeless and numb. In the cover of the night, in the glow of the soft street lamps, she was not chasing away her nightmares. In this moment, Grace Whitney felt simply exhilarated.

…

Abigail Armstrong felt absolutely exhausted.

The past hour had been comprised of wakeful terror; a swirl of emotions only comparable to another orange night; wild anxiety wore a heavy footpath into their carpet as she paced. Back and forth, back and forth until her physical exhaustion had finally given out, though long before her mental exhaustion had even kicked in. She turned her phone over in her hands once more, watching the light flick on and off as she fiddled with its buttons.

One minute had passed…then two, still two; it seemed as though time was crawling, taunting her with all of the unanswered questions of the future. And all Abigail could do was sit and wait for the clock to change again. So she dialed his number, fingers fumbling over the touch screen and deleting the erroneous numbers caused by her flailing nerves. She deleted and re-dialed until finally, after the third try, she'd gotten it correct.

She knew it was late but couldn't help but hold her breath in frustration as she listened to the ringing. Her focus was not on his sleep schedule. Abigail felt the tunnel vision of anxiety filtering throughout the room, and when his groggy voice answered she could barely choke out her words.

"Grace is gone. She snuck out an hour ago, and I know she brought alcohol, and I just-"

"Whoa, whoa, Ab. Take a breath for me." She complies, and he can hear the shaky, uneven gasping of breath collecting in her lungs. Abigail lets it out slowly through her nose and sits on the edge of her bed, limbs shaking. Her heart is palpitating, thrashing against her ribs. She can almost hear it in her ear-drums, the hummingbird rhythm of complete apprehension.

"Sammy, what do I do?"

"Well first, I think you should sit down." She rolls her eyes at this, the ghost of a smile playing on her features. He knows her too well.

"I am, I am."

"Okay. I think you should call Miss Raine."

"No." Abigail is vehement; he can tell by the terse tone of her voice, the way she knows she's completely shut down. "No, I can't do that. She'll get kicked out of the academy. And then what, Sammy? I thought she wasn't doing well, but if she loses this she'll lose _everything._ "

"So don't."

"Wow, you're helpful."

He rolls over in bed, letting a yawn escape his parted lips. Sammy doesn't let her comment affect him, not even in the slightest. Although her tone is harsh and her words are clipped, he knows just how greatly this is worrying her. It's been so long, _so_ long since Abigail's had a friend as good as Grace. Even Kat, whom he'd tried to set up in a friendship with her, hadn't been too friendly for long. But this…this was something genuine. He could tell by her worry; by the fact that she was calling him at such an unreasonable time to worry over her.

"So here's what I think, then." His voice is calming, an attempt to talk her down from her fervid mood. "You wait."

"I wait?"

"Yes. You sit, and you wait. And if she doesn't come back before your morning run starts, then you call someone. At that point, it won't be a choice. She'd be missing, and you'd have to sacrifice that last bit of protection you have over her to look at the bigger picture. But for now, you wait. You wait, and you worry a little bit, just like any good friend would do."

"I'll wait."

"Do you need me to see if I can make it over?" And then she remembers the _other_ reason she's up late worrying. She fumbles over her words as she stumbles to the bathroom, tossing her abrupt distress into the waste bin.

"No, no I'm fine." And when he prods her she shakes her head, as if he can see her on the other end of the line. When she finally hastens him off of the phone,- _I'm fine, don't worry_. _I'll call you if anything changes-_ she sits alone in the dark, counting the slats of moonlight once more.

 _One…two…three…She'll be home any minute._


	10. Just Trees

The night air feels glorious on her exposed legs, and she exults in the brisk sensation as it hits her in waves. Taking another pull from her flask she sighs, appreciating the feeling of warmth that disperses neatly down her throat. It flushes her face and makes her toes tingle. It's a familiar sensation, and she takes another sip to intensify the feeling.

The stars are out, but covered by the street lamps and bustle of the city on a Friday. It's all so familiar, yet Grace gets the feeling that this is an experience all its own. It's more of an impulse, a risk to be out here when she knows she really shouldn't be. But who would care, really, if she screwed up again? Isn't that what she was meant to do all along? She follows the same worn path she always takes-by-passing an array of 'normal' teenagers getting ready to spend their night out together. She snakes around couples just heading out and families getting ready to leave, putting on a mischievous smile as they glance her way.

Her entire body is encompassed with the feeling of anticipation; of not knowing what the next move will be. Grace likes the way her heart pounds as she passes a group of Academy students, covering her face with her hands and looking the other way. She likes the thrumming of her heart in her chest- _lives_ for it, actually-and lets it beat wild with a blend of impish anxiety all her own.

 _This_ was Grace Whitney's territory; the unknown, the cover of the night, and the warmth of vodka flowing in her veins. She kept along her weathered path, stopping only for a moment to glance at her phone. No missed calls, just as she'd thought. So she heads into the same bar as always, armed with a fake ID although she knows they won't card her. They never do. If she'd learned anything in Adelaide, it was this; who would card a deviously beautiful blonde with a dancer's body, anyway?

…

The party is just beginning when she strolls in, feeling loose and blissful from the brilliant clear ambrosia she'd downed on the way here. Now she's 'Vodka Grace'-twice as buoyant and devious as before, but with half the judgement. She bends over to adjust her boots and ignores the stares of the men at the pool table behind her, twice her age and probably cleaned out of their paychecks for the week on the cheap thrill of gambling. The staring makes her stop, the pace of her heart quickening as the alcohol fuels her anxiety.

The thought of turning back crosses her mind, as it had several times before she'd even reached the bar. Was this _really_ worth risking everything; her life at the academy, Lucy's trust, even Abigail's friendship…? But she eyes a few familiar faces at the counter and swallows the lump that's formed in her throat. No, she won't stop now. This is what she wants, what she _needs_ to feel good again. It's just one night, one harmless night, and she's going to enjoy herself.

The gaggle of girls at the bar squeal when she saunters up, gathering around her with long arms splayed out, grasping for hugs. She giggles in response-a sound so unlike herself-and she grabs a stool in their group as they chat animatedly, calling her 'Gracie' and patting her back. A tall, lanky strawberry blonde with hair down to her hipbones slams her hand on the bar-top, calling for a round of celebratory shots. She turns to Grace then, grinning from ear to ear and making her way over with a drink as bubblegum pink as her lips. She smells like coconut when she hugs Grace, and she keeps one arm around her as she holds up her shot.

"This one," The lanky blonde begins in a voice that reverberates through the bar, stumbling over her words and giggling in the process. "Goes out to our little Gracie, and to what was the best holiday ever. I'm so glad you found your way back to us tonight!" The girls cheer in response, a chorus of soprano voices adding in their little quips before raising their drinks to their lips, chugging them in one fell swoop before slamming them on the table in unison.

It's not something she'd normally drink-it's sweet on her tongue but poison going down, and Grace isn't sure if it's the color that makes her taste Pepto Bismol or the drink itself. She downs the liquid anyway, the music of glass slamming on the bar-top angelic to her ears. Lacey the strawberry blonde still has a hold on her, and gets close to her face as she speaks.

"It's so nice to see you, Gracie! It's been so long!"

"Yeah," She backs away a bit, disliking the proximity of anybody when they talk. But she knows it's just her nature-at least, that's how she remembers things. "It's been _too_ long."

"I haven't seen you since Adelaide…we kind of lost you there, didn't we?" It takes a while for Grace to formulate her response, sucking back the anxiety that forms in her mind by ordering another drink. Just as she thought, the bartender barely spares her a second glance-only to let his eyes wander down the long legs she's flashing his way. He grins and moves away quickly, giving her the confidence to continue on with her story.

"There were some things I had to take care of back in Sydney." It's a smooth lie, her bright blue eyes not daring to let a single disparaging thought affect their shine. Instead, the corners of her mouth upturn in what she plays off as a smirk. "Although there were a few more things I'd have liked to take care of in Adelaide, too."

Lacey giggles, tapping one of the other girls on the shoulder for her attention as well. The brunette turns around, eyes wide and ready for another one of Grace's epic tales. Hell, if dancing didn't work out, Grace figures she could get a job in writing.

"Well you know how it is, trying to keep a low profile and all. The second we nearly got busted in Adelaide I had to speed back to Sydney-someone's got to keep my reputation in line, and it sure as hell isn't my agent. If she found out about that night she'd flip out for sure-PR scandal and all that."

"So then who was that guy that you left with-that last night, during that big rager down near the port?"

"Oh," Grace takes the last swig of her drink and motions for another, buying a bit of time. But with liquid courage searing her throat she feels her devious impulses coming back as if they'd never been asked to hide away. The lies just keep rolling off her tongue, and now that the room is beginning to spin she can't seem to stop them. "He's just another dancer from the production. Always trying to save my ass, of course. Can't have _any_ fun around here anymore!"

…

She's dancing-no pirouettes, or jetes, or plies…just the loose, tipsy movement of hips and arms, swaying from side to side. Grace sings along to all of the songs they play-even the ones she doesn't quite know-and stays in a huddle with the pack of girls. They're dancing too, a bright and blurry movement of colors and shapes that makes Grace giggle with excitement, the taste of an eccentric blue drink tickling her tongue. The dancing comes easy when she's like this; hell, _everything_ comes easy when she's warm and worry-free. So when she feels a pair of hands find her waist she doesn't panic-no, for the first time since Adelaide her body is disconnected from her mind. The memories don't come at all, and she actually leans into the dance.

But when she turns her head a different kind of panic sets in.

"Christian!" She shakes her head and blonde tresses fly in front of her face. Grace attempts to blink away the image that's in front of her now. Christian Reed, in all of his brooding tough guy glory is standing in front of her, face burning bright red.

"Grace!" He takes a step back and crosses his arms over his chest, shaking his head apologetically. "I didn't-I had no idea…I…"

"It's fine, it's fine. Not awkward at all."

"What are you doing out here so late? Aren't you on probation?" She scowls at him then, mimicking his crossed arms without so much as a second thought.

"Who told you that?"

"Not important." Grace rolls her eyes, planting her feet in defiance.

As if she's about to let Christian Reed get the better of her. Not when she's feeling as tipsy as she is, and certainly not when she can feel the secrets threatening to spill right out of her. No, instead she takes a breath, opening her mouth to begin a very pointed argument. But it's not words that come out of her mouth, and all she can do is watch in horror as the thickness of her own vomit splashes right onto her companion's shoes.

"Oh shit.,," It's all she can muster before another round forces its way through her throat and onto the floor. She feels his hand on her-guiding her to the bathroom, no doubt- but makes a beeline for the women's door herself.

Once she's cleaned herself up she stares in the mirror. Her eyeliner has smudged a bit, making her out to be more of a pretty raccoon than the beautiful professional dancer she'd made herself out to be for those girls. Of course, the timing of Christian was like karmic clockwork…she wasn't some professional dancer who traveled the world avoiding PR scandals. She wasn't even allowed to leave the confines of the academy. And by the looks of herself in that mirror, she didn't even have a stitch of her life together.

She makes a beeline for the window then, wiping tears from her cheeks and vomit from the corners of her lips with the back of her hand, not caring where it ends up. Grace climbs the back of a toilet-balancing immensely well for someone who's lost count of her drinks-and jiggles the lock on the window above the stall. When it clicks she sighs with satisfaction, cranking the window open and slipping her slim body through.

Grave Whitney won't allow herself the humiliation of being escorted home. Especially not by a brooding Christian Reed, and especially not after what had just happened.

…

She feels strange; like she's out of focus…like she's in a blurry photo. The world moves around her in a sharp contrast of lines and colors, too bright for her eyes and too loud for her ears. She is simply a player in this moment; a passerby through something much greater than herself. Colors swirl and people shout but she just sits, numb to the point where she isn't content-rather, she doesn't feel much of anything at all. The bitter wind bites at her exposed legs while she sits, knees to her chest. It stings and singes, serving as a constant reminder that she shouldn't be out right now. But all of the bitterness in the world couldn't pull her back to reality now, not when she's so far away.

Grace takes another long pull from her flask, cursing when she feels its last shining drop escape her parted lips. It dribbles down her chin, but the warmth of the liquid she's already consumed makes her mind forget about it. She's forgotten about everything; dancing, socializing…even her own phone number had slipped her mind earlier in the night, and she'd giggled and pulled her phone from her pocket to give some guy from the bar her number. She'd forgotten everything but the one moment she'd set out to forget.

Grace can still smell the cologne, piled on heavy to cover up the stench of crude body odor. When she closes her eyes to the bright city lights they're replaced with dim, shaky lighting and the dust that floated in the air around it. Everything feels so real, so current, and she curses the alcohol on her breath for letting her down so harshly. Pressure builds on her skin; ankles, thighs, hips, chest, until she's drowning in the flood of lucid memories and fighting to keep her eyes opened to the reality lain in front of her. Her hands move across her body, tracing and slapping at the places the pressure is at until they're covered in the red of her haste. Her hair does not blow with the light wind. It pulls, ripping and burning and falling out for sure. And those same vodka tears pool at the base of her eyes, threatening to spill out. But she won't let them-won't give him the satisfaction of watching her cry.

She won't let him win.

Grace fumbles for her phone then, even the tiniest action dizzying her to the point where she has to pause for a moment and collect herself. She's never felt _this_ kind of drunk before; numb and blackened, unable to do anything but sit. So when she finally finds her phone she dials the first number she can think of. And as it rings she holds her breath, waiting.

"Mmm?" The greeting she receives is mumbled between two yawns, and she lets out an involuntary giggle at the peculiar sound. "Grace, is that you?"

"Benji! _Dangle,_ my most _favorite_ of friends. Or, is that not what we are this week?"

"Grace, you're drunk." His reply is simple and short, his voice sounding a bit terser than the confused or concerned laced within its undertones.

"Of _course_ I'm not, Ben. _You_ must be drunk."

"Grace-" She leans up against the tree a bit more as he speaks. While she can make out the words he is saying they're not cohesive; she can simply make out the tones in his voice-the way his words grow in meaning with each change of tenor.

"Grace, are you there?"

"Mm? Oh I am, I'm just dying to hear what you have to say next. What other words can you possibly pull out of your ass to make me believe that you actually care?"

"Alright, where are you?"

"Just sitting near a tree." And then a flash of realization-she raises a finger in protest along with her voice. "Oh no-no way, Benjamin Tickle. You're not coming to save me now. Christian already tried that, and-"

" _Christian_ tried to come and get you? Since when have you been talking to him?"

"Like you care. Anyway, you can't make me go back there. You can't make me do anything and you know it. Just because you think you saved me back in Adelaide doesn't mean you can control me now."

There's shuffling on the other line; moving, pacing, and then the slamming of a door and the pull of a zipper. She knows she shouldn't be talking but she just can't stop the words from tumbling out of her mouth. Grace is speaking at rapid-fire pace, her now an ambrosia-laced venom spewing in the direction of someone she knows is completely innocent. Just because she's sure he doesn't like her the same way she likes him, doesn't mean she should treat him like dirt. But the line between realization and action is blurred by her dizzying state, and although she knows what's right she can't help but speak in the wrong.

...

Grace sits on a bench near the harbor, head resting on her knees. She's hugging them to her chest, fingers interlaced with each other as if to keep herself at bay. The beginnings of a hangover are thrumming fresh in her head. She shuts her brilliant blues, groaning against her own will. And then she feels his presence-smells the trail of woodsy cologne he insists on wearing-and groans even louder.

"I told you not to come."

"Hey, you're the one that called me." She shoots him a glare from underneath her blonde locks but keeps her lips sealed, hoping that Ben will just decide to leave her alone. Instead he puts a hand on her back, rubbing small circles across her back. "You're looking a little…uhh…"

"Drunk? Sloppy? _Messed up?_ I know, alright, I get it."

"No, sad." Grace lifts her head up to meet his eye contact, and it's the way she's sitting that makes him want to pull her in closer. Her posture is collapsed; her eyes wide and glazed over with defeat. It's as if someone has vacuumed the life right out of her, and it makes his heart hurt.

"You look _sad,_ Grace, worse than I've ever seen you."

"It's a side-effect." She puts on a charming façade, but it falls by the wayside. Her usual devious smirk is flat, and the bubbling doesn't even reach her eyes. "You know, of the messy traumatic events happening to the crazy person."

"Still thinking about it?"

She scoffs then, kicking her legs out in front of him and running a hand through her hair. God, honesty hour is sobering. She can barely meet his eyes then, feeling the personal anxieties rising as a lump in her throat. But Grace swallows it, continuing the conversation if not for him then for her own sanity.

"Thinking about it, living it…he's _everywhere._ I came out tonight because I just thought-

"-Thought you could drink the nightmares away?"

"More like trying to drink myself normal. But of course, why would that work for more than thirty seconds? I just…I want so badly for things to be different."

"But they're not." It's not mean spirited, although the words themselves could be perceived that way. Instead she's wrapped in the warmth of his tone, the way the words are caressed with care and sincerity. "Things aren't different, and you're suffering because of it. You're changing because of it-which is all completely normal. I mean, who wouldn't be changed by something like what you've gone through?"

"You." Her voice is quieter than he's used to, shoulders hunched and body language reserved. And when he looks, she's fighting back tears. "You've gone through a lot, too. The year my mom died you were fighting leukemia. You spent a huge portion of your childhood in the hospital. If that's not traumatic…"

"Alright, I'm just going to say it. You, Grace Whitney, are ridiculous." She laughs then, shaking her head at his response. It just seems easy, sitting here half drunk on this bench with his hand still rubbing circles on her back. It seems easy, and yet it's the hardest conversation of her life.

"You're comparing apples to oranges. My leukemia didn't leave me traumatized. It changed me, yeah, but I don't wake up in a cold sweat over it. It doesn't follow me in the streets, or keep me from class or training or _life._ Grace, you have a serious problem here. You have a problem, and you have every right to be affected by what happened to you. In fact, I'd think you were crazy if it _didn't_ affect you."

"So you don't think I'm crazy?" The circles stop on her back and he smiles. The warmth that spreads throughout her now is organic; caused by nothing but eye contact and the honesty of his presence. He shakes his head, wrapping an arm around her before validating the shake of his head with a verbal _no._

"Not even if I'm paranoid? Or I just puked on someone's shoes trying to drink away my problems?"

"Not even if it were my own shoes."

Grace chuckles, and the thrumming in her head comes forth with the shaking of her shoulders. Her fingers reach up to rub her temples and she groans again, shooting a sorry glance Ben's way. He laughs back at her, bringing his arm around her shoulder and leading her off of the bench.

"Let's go home, Grace." She puts her head on his shoulder and welcomes his embrace, leaning into him. "I think we've had enough partying for a century."

"It's almost three a.m."

"Then we'll just barely make it before Lucy wakes up for another day of dance torture."

Grace groans at the thought; just picturing her hangover in pirouette is making her sick. Ben stops, pulling a bottle of water from the bag at his side.

"If this doesn't work, I'll distract Zach tomorrow. So much fumbling around, he won't even know your name."

"You don't have to do that, Ben. You didn't have to do any of this."

"Hey," He stops for a moment, holding on to her hand. Her breath hitches in her throat. She doesn't feel nervous, or anxious or scared. Here, with his hand on hers, she decides that this must be what safety feels like. "I _wanted_ to help you. You're my best friend. Not this week, or on every Tuesday, or whatever it felt like before. I'll be your friend _forever,_ Grace Whitney, whether you like it or not."


	11. Carry On

" _Your life comes in waves. We've all felt it. And with every wave there is a period of lowness, or rest. You can battle against that all you want but that resting time, the times when maybe things are moving a little slower than you'd like, is the time when you are gaining your strength and power for the season in which you will need it most." –Julia Albain_

It's a long rest of the week.

For once in her life, Abigail Armstrong has been stunned to silence; she walks through her waking life with the persistent routine being her only link between herself and the world. It's the shifts in schedule that keep her sanity in check; 4am run, 5am stretch, 6am class, 12pm lunch…the tick of the clock and the continuity of repetition is what she lets herself get lost in. With a schedule, there is no deviation. With a plan, there is no time for errant thoughts. With this routine, she can kid herself into thinking that things will never have to change.

In this routine there is silence; Abigail and Grace remain side-by-side, but the banter has left an empty space in its wake. She cannot bring herself to continue these quirky little quips with her roommate, not when she's begun to feel so wronged.

It's not that Grace snuck out that bothers her. It's not even the fact that she risked her whole education; her entire boarding situation, her relationships, her _life_...What bothers Abigial Armstrong about her roommate is that not once did she tell her about that night. When she asked her roommate where she had been, all she replied was a simple ' _I just needed to get out for a bit. Everything's alright now, my sneak-out days are officially over.'_

That simple sentence-a seemingly harmless response-is what has sparked a stony silence between the two. Sure, Abigail converses with Grace. They might share a small laugh once in a while, but never akin to what they had had before the night of Grace's 'escape.' It's a silence that stirs Grace into both sadness and confusion and she wonders; what could she have possibly done to cause such a shift in their relationship?

The brunette begins to see less and less of her roommate; 4am runs are back to solo time, and the only thing they really do together now is get ready for class and bed. During class they make awkward, almost forced small talk. It's as if every element of their friendship has boiled down to a single snapping thread, balancing and unraveling in the changing of the tides. So Abigail throws herself into Sammy's training, desperately trying to get him on track to the third year level as he fights to keep his place and regain his complete mobility.

Abigail wakes up to the closing of a door; minute, muted…the most miniscule of clicking sounds, and the release of a hand from the doorknob. She pretends not to notice but rolls over, peeking through the slit at the bottom of her sleep mask to find those same long legs that kept her up all night. She's holding her feet, unlacing her boots and tossing them underneath her bed in a useless attempt to keep quiet.

And all at once, the unbridled emotions she's been choking back all night approach her in one crushing blow. Seeing Grace so seemingly unchanged, even better for a night of sneaking out to god knows where…it begins as a minor irritation in her mind. But the more she watches Grace, combing out her unruly hair, wiping the makeup off of her face, and coming out of her party mode-the more she sees her friend go about her life as normal, the more that irritation grows. And instead of a mild thought in her mind it snowballs; anxiety and anger take root in her stomach, and her heart pounds with the fear of confrontation she knows she's going to have to have.

Abigail sucks in a deep breath, rattling in her throat, and brings her shaking hands to her sleep mask. Sitting up she removes it-her fiery brown eyes meeting Grace's anxious blues in one swift and immediate moment.

"I think we need to check in."

"I'm not really ready for that right now, Ab."

"Grace," She sighs, her tone reflexively terse from the anger and disappointment that sets in her veins. "I need you to know that I'm here for you. We _are_ friends, right?"

Grace Whitney sighs, running a hand through her blonde locks before sitting on her bed-an act of defiance to the sudden change of demeanor in the room. Abigail moves to sit on the floor, attempting to start their routine check-in drill. But the blonde does not budge. The tension in the room is palpable, and suddenly Grace reverts back to unfortunately familiar territory; unrelenting shame, the scolding, the unnecessarily incited talks brought on by her father. This moment, with Abigail sitting on the floor, is rapidly beginning to feel much too similar to her childhood. She feels the familiar laughter rising in her throat-the involuntary nervous reaction to confrontation she'd picked up as a child and had never been able to shake. Grace sighs internally as Abigail's brows furrow.

"It's not funny, Grace. I stayed up all night wondering where you were! I needed you, and you weren't there. I"

"-Maybe there's a reason I wasn't there last night, Ab. Ever think of that?"

"That's not the point I'm trying to make!" Abigail groans, holding her head in her hands for a moment as she takes a deep breath. The tension is visible in her shoulders; the way they are raised to her ears, and in the way her body shakes as she takes a deep breath. It's a moment of silence that seems to stretch forever; neither making a single sound, not even with their breath or the nervous shifting of their bodies. "The point, Grace, is that I feel like you don't trust me anymore."

An eerie silence; Abigail's shoulders shake from the intensity of the moment, and all she can do it sun a hand through her hair and count her frustration down. Grace's eyes flicker through a visible moment of indecision through the conflict of feelings that ricochet inside of her with suitable intensity. Her first, most instinctual sensation is pain, laced on its edges with betrayal. She blinks it away quickly, replacing it with a rapid and intense anger that causes her to raise her voice, eyes ablaze.

"Why did I ever bother telling you anything if this is how you're going to react? I made _one_ mistake, one. That's on me. But the way you've been treating me because of it is all you. Don't worry, I talked to Ben about it so there's no reason to check in on me like I'm some sort of charity case."

"You…you talked to Ben?" Abigail looks up at her roommate with that same expression of hurt that Grace just so feverishly attempted to blink away.

"Yeah, I talked to Ben." Her tone is harsh at first; the tip of her tongue creating a sharp diction that slices through her roommate with each syllable. Grace pauses for a moment and feels the divide in the room as palpable as a human touch-the very separation that's torn them apart. The thickness has hung in the air from the morning she'd returned from her night out, and a sudden realization brings Grace to the floor. She's drowning in her thoughts and draws in a shaking breath before raising her eyes to meet Abigiail's.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I yelled, and I'm sorry I've been so distant lately. So…I'm checking in. I'm checking in because it's been a long, miserable week and I miss you. And I know that I've messed with our friendship and your feelings, and I'm so, _so_ sorry about that."

"Grace, I just need you to know that you can trust me. It was wrong of me to shut you out, but I thought we could tell each other everything, and all of a sudden I just felt so out of the loop."

"You're right to feel that way." Grace brings her hands to her lap, staring at them as she picks at the navy polish on her fingernails. Her hair falls over her face and she allows it, shifting positions so that she is even more hidden by this natural disguise. If she's going to do this, she's going to do it simply. "I just…I have something to tell you. If we're not keeping secrets. You just have to promise me you won't treat me differently, or get super upset because that's not going to solve anything."

"Good, this is good." Abigail feels a bubbling in her throat and her thought begin spinning rapidly in her head, wondering just what the added truth could be.

Grace is bracing herself, trying to ignore the physical pain of her heartbeat, the way it pounds against her chest as the truth begs to leave her sealed lips once more. _You'll feel better,_ Ben had attempted to convince her time and time again. _Once you tell someone else everything that happened, you'll feel lighter. It won't make the problem go away, but it'll get some of the burden off of your shoulders._

The anticipation hits Abigail with hastened intensity, all of these thoughts and ramblings, so much so that she can't feel the flipping and rolling of the word vomit rising in her throat until it finally erupts, the pacing of her voice rapid and alarming.

"I'm pregnant."

And so the words tumble out of Grace's mouth as well, a bit more timid and reserved as Abigail's.

"I was assaulted."

But they interrupt each other with their personal truths, word vomit and timid admissions colliding in the thickness of the air between them. The tension dissipates as soon as the words leave their mouths and they just stare, dumbfounded at what has just happened. Abigail's hand flies to her lips, as if the simple blockage of air can take back what she has just confessed. And then she's stammering, eyes wide and brimming with tears, shaking her head at her blonde companion.

"I didn't-I _really_ didn't want to say anything yet, not until I was sure of everything, and I haven't even told Sammy yet and-"

"Ab, breathe. I can pretend I didn't hear anything, but I know it won't mean much…" She pauses then, glancing down at her roommate's flat stomach as if the words alone would change her body composition when said out loud. When her eyes finally move up to Abigail's face they meet her eyes; wide with what Grace Whitney can only read as pure, unfiltered panic. It's then that she makes an immediate decision.

First she leans over, wrapping her arm around her teary-eyed best friend and hugging her close. In their embrace is a kind of comfort only known when it is felt; it is the safety of being wrapped in a friend's arms, the immediate release of anxiety from airing out the thoughts that have been weighing down their shoulders. And when Abigail wraps an arm around Grace's waist, tightening the hug, there is a spark of hope. _Maybe,_ Grace thinks as she begins to rub circles on her best friend's back, _we were put together for a reason._

And so the second thing she does part her lips, breathing out her fears before beginning, in a soothing and slightly cracking tone of voice;

"In the beginning, I had so much fun in Adelaide. There were great friends-these older girls I'd met at a bar-and the parties were intense. I believed that nothing would replace the incredible high I was riding, that no person or feeling or moment would bring me down. That belief lasted about a week. Then, things got bad."


	12. Unmade Plans

_February 21_ _st_ _,_

 _Sammy,_

 _I don't really know how to put everything I'm feeling down into words on paper. I need to sort myself out though, and thanks to Isa this is now the best way for me to do it. Sammy, I don't even know where to start, or where to even take the conversation once it's started. There are so many things running through my head right now that I can't focus-not on class, or tour, or even when we're in your strength training. I can tell that you've noticed; of course you have, you're perfect in that way. And I owe you an explanation, because you've been so worried that you haven't been sleeping. Yes, I've noticed. I guess that's something we're both good at._

 _So I'm pregnant._

 _The more I write it-the more I let myself use the word instead of skipping over it or mumbling it or pretending it doesn't exist-the more it terrifies me. All I wanted was for this year to be our year. I've been getting better, you've been healing…we've been working so hard for everything we could've earned but now it's all ending. I just don't know if I can do it. You know me, you know how much I've wanted ballet. And the more I think about it the more stressed out I get. I can't live my life in stony silence but I also can't live it telling you the truth because I love you too much to drag you into this…_

 _I don't know if I'm ready to carry a baby. I don't know if I'm ready to be fully responsible for another human being when I can't even manage myself without going to see Isa every week, or without dancing everything away to stupid emotional songs just to keep myself moving. I barely know who I am without that part of me, how would I even begin to raise a child?_

 _I've been reading a lot of things online because hey, I can't sleep anyway so why not drown myself in articles that only prove that I could never be a mother? Most of them say the same thing-it's a difficult thing, and it's a major risk. If you can't take care of yourself then you can't take care of a baby- if you can't gain the weight your baby will die- who would ever do that to a child- who would let a child live in a home-a support system, a family as damaging as that? And they're right. Who am I to think that I can possibly even have this baby, let alone take care of it and teach it proper values and give it a nurturing home?_

 _I'm not the right person for it, is what I'm trying to say._

 _I don't know what to do. I'm terrified, I'm terrified of literally everything that could happen. And with every day that passes and I don't tell you I'm more and more disgusted with myself. I wish it were easier. I wish it were easier, and that this had never happened. Because I know that you'll be supportive and you'll be there for me but honestly I can't help but think of what would happen if I ruined this for us. Because knowing me and knowing my currently staggeringly low record of caring for other people and caring for myself I'd ruin this for us, if this is even what you'd want. And then there's the issue of my own mother. I don't want to be my mother. I don't want to become her, I don't want to live out her legacy as the mother her daughter loves, but the mother that drives her too hard. And I don't want to disappoint her, which is definitely what would happen if I told her. And your mother, too. I love your mom, Sam, I love her. She and I really bonded through the time you were in the hospital and it's all coming to an end. The more I think about it the more I can just see the pieces falling apart right in front of my face._

 _So that's it. I'm pregnant, and I'm scared, and I don't know if I'll ever be able to tell you. But at least I've written it down. I guess I'm half-way there._

As her alarm rings she sets her journal on her bed in a hurry, grabbing a jacket before running out the door to class, attempting to leave this new anxious piece of herself on the paper. Abigail Armstrong doesn't have time to worry about herself.

…..

As the music echoed softly down the halls energy pulsed through them, their minds not their own anymore. For Abigail Armstrong this was the perfect distraction; she let the rich tones of the contemporary piece reverberate throughout her body, each thrumming of a drum or deep, pulsating note is sent throughout her in an effort to dissipate any other feeling she might have. She lets the music carry her as it always has; gentle, caressing…but the hand of ill intentions has always waited at the very bottom of her desire to cover things up, and the familiar pang of guilt sets in her stomach as the beat of the drum playing through the stereo.

He's not an idiot, he thinks as he lifts Abigail into the air, careful not to step too hard on his ankle-the last bit of him that is still healing. And as Sammy hobbles about during their dance, following her effortless dance with a more struggled, physically draining movement, he dwells on the fact that it doesn't seem like she's trying at all. When she stumbles forward into his arms he expects the passion and heartbreak that usually lines her beautifully focused features. This time there is nothing; brown eyes void of expression, glazed and gazing past him and into the distance. It's like she isn't there at all.

He tries not to let it irritate him but with every turn she makes, void of artistic expression, he feels another stab in the back. The armor that he'd placed there for her has been cut through, and every beat of that drum suddenly feels very personal.

The music continues but she stops suddenly, rolling on the floor after a leap and getting up immediately, pausing the stereo on the other side of the room. He stops with the music and looks up at her, brown meeting tired brown, and she runs her hands through her mussed hair in slight annoyance.

"Something's wrong with you." It's blunt and terse, and Sammy could laugh at just how classically Abigail she sounds until he remembers just why he's feeling so tense. And then he's near groaning in frustration, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"With me? Ab, I know I might be a little off but if either one of us has anything to say we both know that it's you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" She's crossing her arms now too, and it doesn't feel right. Nothing about this conversation feels comfortable to her but with each cross of her arms or roll of her eyes, she feels the old Abigail seeping out of the cracks. Her old self is rising so fast that it's consuming, those old familiar walls building themselves back up out of the secrets that she's kept and the insecurities she's held.

And it's felt so nice to tell him everything, to finally let herself be without boundaries or reservations with somebody. But every time she looks at Sammy it's like everything comes full circle. His eyes are always concerned, ready to listen and accept without judgement. Through his eyes her life plays in flashes of his support, in moments where he'd dropped everything and come to her aid, picked up the phone at 2am, rallied with her through her scariest and most personal times of self-doubt. This time is no different.

He drops his hands to his side and steps to her, only to lift his hands and place them on her shoulders. She tenses at the touch, just for a moment, before melting into it completely. Abigail's grabbing at him now, returning the hug with a feverish pace and tight grip that's willing him never to let go.

"I'm sorry, that was a little harsh. I didn't mean it like that, I just…I thought what you'd left out was a note for me-I'm sorry you didn't get a chance to tell me yourself, Ab, but I know. I know, and I'm here."

…

 _Grace lets him in, a hand still on the door as he breezes past her and a crooked, teasing smile on her face._

 _"She left five minutes ago, said to tell you to just meet her at the studio. I mean really, I don't know how the two of us put up with her impatience so well. I'm thinking we should get awards for it, Lieberman." She has an airy, lighthearted quality to her voice he hasn't heard in a while, and he's actually glad for the interaction. From the day Abigail had called him crying over Grace's disappearance he hadn't had so much as a polite nod in interaction with Grace Whitney, not knowing how to handle their little quarrel. Whatever it was, however, Abigail had assured him yesterday that everything was 'more than fine,' and that she was glad to have her best friend back._

 _Honestly, Sammy was glad to see Grace back to her old self again. Something just hadn't been right in the way they'd been arguing._

 _He laughs in response to the suggestion of a 'Patience Award' before his phone vibrates in his pocket. Pulling it out of his sweatpants, he chuckles at the exasperated tone read through an 'urgent' text from his girlfriend._

 _"A love letter from our dear Abi?" Grace has perched herself on her bed, thumbing on her own phone as she watches him root through the top drawer of her desk._

 _"More like an 'I'll pretend not to love you if you don't bring this right away' letter." When Grace tips her head in confusion-and piqued curiosity-he shakes his head, opening another drawer hastily. "She forgot one of our CDs, so I need to find it in the very specific spot she keeps it in. And of course I can't remember right now."_

 _Grace watches, amused, as he fumbles around Abigail's desk drawers. But soon the movement bores her and she turns back to her phone, scrolling through the internet._

" _Do you know where they are?" It takes a moment for the blonde to respond and when she does, it's merely a simple shoulder shrug. She tightens her lips to hide the entertained and mischievous smile of keeping him searching. Sammy sighs and lets his gaze fall to the center of the desk, where he comes across his name._

Dear Sammy,

 _He lets his eyes scan the paper, but when they come across a sentence that makes his heart simultaneously drop to his stomach and leap to his throat, he shuts the book and shoves it to the other corner of the desk._

" _Alright," Grace interrupts the thrumming heartbeat in his ears and he jumps, turning toward her unable to hide the bewildered expression that makes his eyes wide and frantic. "Since you seem so hopeless in this search, looks like it's roommate to the rescue."_

 _He holds his hands out to take the disks and they tremble in front of his eyes; a visible factor of the jolting news he wasn't intended to know just yet. When the cold of the objects hit his hands he can barely meet Grace's eyes, mustering a mumbled thanks before shoving them hastily in his bag. He shuts Abigail's journal then, letting one last glance fall over the two words that have got him in such a state._

" _You look like you're about to pass out, are you-"_

" _I'm fine, really, fine." As he's retreating his leg hits the corner of Abigail's desk and he winces, bringing a hand to the injury while trying to block everything else out. "Fine. Totally, completely alright." A shoulder to the doorway and his hand shoots up to the newly inflicted injury. But as he stumbles out of the room, the physical injuries leave his mind almost as immediately as they came._

…

"Oh…" It's the smallest sound he's ever heard from Abigail's mouth, but it's all she can muster. Her gaze drops down almost immediately, and he way her lips drop-just slightly-before turning straight into a tense line lets him know exactly how this conversation is going to pan out.

Or, rather, how she wants the conversation to go.

"I have no idea what you're talking about. I haven't written a letter since I was in grade school-it's a little primitive, Sammy. Why would I bother writing you when I see you every day?"

There are two routes in which Sammy's mind wants to take him. The first is impulsive-almost scary in the way that it's not like him at all. He wants to shout; to throw down his arms and shake her, to make her see that she's being ridiculous. He wants to stop everything and call her out on her lies-to quote the letter and everything it contained, just to prove a point.

But that's not Sammy, and one breath later he's wrapping her in his arms, taking long and quiet breaths with her. And as he begins to feel that shaking-the familiar stuttering of her body, emotionally drained and giving up against his-he counts for her. _One…two…three...four...five…_

"It's alright, it'll be alright."

"It won't," Abigail's speaking through her tears, hands pushing against his chest in an attempt to push him away. "I know you're trying to do what's right, but it's not going to be alright. Nothing about this is _alright,_ Sammy."

"Ok." He lets her out of his embrace slowly, letting her catch her breath and wipe her tears. But he won't take his hands off of her shoulders and she won't fight him anymore. There's no fight left in her exhausted eyes, her posture drooping low and her hair falling out of place. She's not Abigail, but the shell of a person he could not recognize; plagued by the feeling of doing this alone. But looking at her, feeling the exhaustion transfer from her body to his own, all he can muster out is a quiet "Ok."

"Ok?"

"Yeah, ok. _Ok,_ I'm trying to do what's right. But I'm also doing what I _want_ to do. _Ok,_ things might not be alright, but whatever happened to _at any cost?_ What happened to loving someone no matter what? We've had…well, we've had just a ton of crap thrown at us. But we're still together. And I still love you, and I'll keep loving you even when things aren't _alright._ " He can feel the release before he can see it; her shoulders drop, and a breath she's been holding in is finally released. Abigail's eyes travel upward to finally meet his. And then he's holding her again, rubbing circles on her back as she takes shaking breaths. It causes a lump to rise in his own throat, and he tries to swallow it as he continues to talk her down.

"It might not be alright, Ab, but _we'll_ be alright. I'm not going anywhere, and as stubborn, irritable, and ridiculously driven to your cause as you are you could never make me."

Nothing in that room changes; they remain in an embrace, Sammy comforting while Abigail holds him tighter. The CDs are still in his bag, Abigail's things shoved into cubby holes and scattered over the studio. The atmosphere has shifted, however, and it's as though everything is different. Abigail can sense it in the way his soothing words reach her ears; sincerity, 100% honesty…complete and total trust. The last of the bricks of her carefully crafted wall has fallen, and as she feels its weight fall to her feet she falls too, pulling back from his embrace to grab hold of his hand.

"So, we're really going to talk about this…" It comes out with no hesitance, still a bit of a question as she looks to Sammy. He smiles then-hesitant, but giving a nod of support.

"We're talking."

The disks are left in the bag slung over Sammy's shoulder, training forgotten for the day. And as they leave the studio for the day, his hand feels that much more at home in hers than it has ever felt before. Not perfect, but right.


	13. All Your Uncertainty

The room is stark silent when Zach stops the music. Faces turn, eyes roll, and hands are swiftly removed from pretty ballerina waists as a handful of the girls glare at their companion's lingering touches. It's near picturesque, in a way. The class of young dancers stands poised, waiting for their notes. Some spare nervous glances around the room while others stay focused, eyes trained on their instructor as he moves around the classroom. But it's the pair toward the back of the room that is better subject for an artist.

They stand close together, even after the music has stopped. His hand stays wrapped around her waist, hands warm and welcoming to the new kinds of pain that have resided there. He leans over and whispers in her ear, something incoherent to the room that's now filled with nervous mumblings. She sighs, placing a hand over his before shaking her head, mouthing a phrase that includes "worry" and "fine." She then motions to his knee, which has been taped over with a fresh dressing of athletic tape. It's his turn to shake his head, putting his hands to his knee before waving her off. She still looks worried, his partner, when he stands back straight and tall. But the instructor has made his way over to them, stopping next to the pair and holding up a stack of fliers.

"I wanted to remind you all that while it still seems far away, third year tour will be here before you know it."

"But it's not until the middle of next term." Sean pipes up from his place next to Sammy, shifting his weight on his feet while an adolescent smirk crosses his features. He leans his elbow on his partner, a tall and beautiful blonde who brushes him off upon immediate contact. "What?" He asks, and the blonde rolls her eyes, staring over at the nearest girl with eyes that begged to be anywhere but next to the lanky presence whose dancing was sub-par, at best. Abigail chuckled at the interaction, subconsciously shifting closer to her own partner.

"You'll need to start seriously thinking about this…not only is this a great opportunity for your clearly unrelenting social lives, but for your careers as well. This is training-a real experience and a chance to live life on the road. There will be no other opportunity as great as third year tour."

Every eye in the room is trained on the instructor now, as he seemingly floats around the classroom with an omnipresent authority. Even fearless Grace Whitney stands utterly still next to 'Benster' the clown, who Abigail swears hasn't taken a single breath since the word tour was mentioned. They nod along to Zach's speech, adding in a 'yes sir' or 'no, sir' once in a while to break the eerie silence. Fretful bodies shift from foot to foot; fixing a hairpin here, straightening a lace or hem there. And when he's finished his speech he nods between Abigail and the blonde next to her, holding up a finger as the rest of the students begin to leave.

"Before you go," He makes his way over with immeasurable confidence, each stride taken with a purpose as he stands between the two pairs of partners. "I need to speak with you first, and then with you." His finger lands on Sammy first, and Abigail's heart thrums harder in her chest. But then Zach's second point is made toward Grace, who takes a breath and puts on her glowing façade of confidence, tossing her bag to the side of the room and turning to her best friend.

"I guess we'll meet up with you later then?" She shrugs, pulling out her half-up hairstyle and letting blonde ringlets frame her face once more. Abigail and Ben hesitate, looking between their companions with clear concern. Abigail's eyes are trained on Sammy, who's gone over to talk to Zach first. The way his lips are moving rapidly, pointing between his knee and the surgical scar on his abdomen…the instructor's arms are crossed, one leg in front of the other, and the scene of it all makes Abigail slightly queasy. Ben simply looks at Grace, attempting to emulate every one of his feelings into his eyes so that they don't come the wrong way from his mouth. But before he can begin his tactics Grace has ushered them to the door, her same airy voice guiding them toward the hallway.

"We'll be _fine_ , Abs. You worry too much! Save us our usual seat, Dangle!" The door closes behind them, a resounding and final click that leaves the pair on the outside feeling uneasy. That is, until Ben snapped back into the reality of himself.

"Armstrong!" He slings an arm around her shoulder, guiding her from the door and pulling at the perfected bun atop her head. She smiles at his impish actions behind her rolling eyes, jostling him away from her with a light and jesting shove. "Looks like we're on a mission to grab that table then, let's get moving!"

She allows herself to be pulled along with him, glancing back at the closed door until it disappears from sight, rattling her nerves even more than her goofy companion's trivial joking and loud, uninterrupted presence.

(…)

"They've made it out alive!" Ben greets them from across the courtyard, standing and waving a large hand.

"It's not like they wouldn't have been able to find us." Abigail murmurs to the goofy, brother of a guy who's shoved a handful of chips into his mouth. He pats her shoulder, grease ridden fingers touching soft cotton fabric quicker than she can shove them away. She shakes her head and he grins, impishly rubbing at her hair again.

"Oh Abigail, how I've loved being your _best_ and _most caring_ friend."

"I've loved it too." She shoots him a sickeningly sweet smile, nodding her head.

"Really?"

"Oh yeah, almost as much as I've loved this." Her actions are swift and unrelenting; Abigail's hand shoots straight for the overflowing basket of chips, flinging one straight for the lanky brunette with impeccable aim. The greasy chip knocks Ben straight in the nose and he flinches, jumping up in his chair a bit before swatting at the offending object.

"Your girlfriend's got a real mean streak, Lieberman." Ben's wiping at his face with a napkin, grinning from ear to ear. Sammy and Grace sit down, casting their bags on the ground next to them as they dig into their post-class meal. "Didn't think she'd stoop this far, though."

"You're fighting with fire there, Ben. I'd say stop while you're ahead but it looks like you're already behind." Abigail laughs at this, tossing one of the bottled waters on the table Sammy's way. As he opens his bottle and continues the teasing with Ben and Grace she watches him, willing his eyes to make contact with hers. It's as if she's trying to start that very fire with her eyes, scorching and burning not with hatred or ferocity but curiosity. His absence has eaten away at her.

When their eyes finally meet his features immediately soften and he nods, placing a hand on hers. _Good,_ the contact makes her lips turn up back at him. _That's a good sign._

"Can we-"

"Later," He interrupts her, popping a chip into his mouth. "I'll tell you everything that happened later."

"Ugh, save the sappy romantics for later, 'Samigail.' We have more pressing matters to attend to."

"Like what?" Sammy sheepishly draws his hand away from Abigail's, the pair grinning in unison as if they're children who've been caught in the schoolyard. The blonde's eyes shine then, her lips turning up into an impish smirk as she reaches a slow hand into the basket of chips. She holds the chip between her two fingers for a moment, pinching the crispy batter until it flies from her hand, whacking Ben in the center of his forehead. He gasps in protest, reaching his hand in the basket to retaliate.

"Nononono!" Grace's protests collide into one long and hurried word as she rises from the table, covering her face with her hands. "Get Abbi, she started it!"

"No way, Disgrace. She may have started it but I'm ending it!" Grace bolts then, long legs clad in combat boots carrying her as fast as they'll go. Ben takes after her in long strides, handful of chips in one hand and a teasing grin wide upon his features. Abigail watches them until they've gone out of sight, shaking her head and laughing after them.

(…)

Later that night, the third year common room is buzzing with activity; foolish first years poke their heads in, toeing the line until one of the more built third year boys ushers them away. He takes claim of their rightfully earned territory on the spacious third floor of the dorms. His raucous friends move toward the door to high-five their defender, crossing their arms in solidarity as the sheepish first year boys hang their heads in defeat.

"Someday, kids." They tease to their intruders. The largest of the third years laughs, shaking his head.

"Yeah, if you make it."

From her place on the couch Abigail rolls her eyes, looking up from her journal in distaste at their childish behavior.

"Think they've made their point yet?" She turns to Grace, smirking. But the blonde doesn't even spare a glance at her roommate's voice. Instead, her eyes are trained on the gaggle of boys in the doorway. Abigail shakes her head at the sight; long legs are sprawled out, one bent at the knee while the other resides, barefoot and black polished, on the coffee table in front of them. Her laptop lays forgotten on her lap, the open word document still blinking and blank, completely ignored. She props her head on her hand, grinning.

"Earth to Grace Whitney…" No response. The tallest of the boys cracks a joke and the blonde chuckles under her breath. "Hey!"

Abigail brings a hand to her roommate's arm, pulling her out of her revere. Grace looks back at her in annoyance, mouth opened slightly into an offended 'o' shape as she scowls.

"What the hell was that for?"

"If you could've seen yourself, you'd know. Remember what you were saying to me this morning? About happy romantics?" The brunette perfectionist raises her eyebrows in an expression only comparable to a judgmental mother's watchful eye. "Ben Tickle… _Dangle…_ Really?"

"Hey, it's nothing."

"Trust me, I wouldn't even be staring this conversation with you if I didn't think it was something worth talking about it. The dramatics with Tara and Kat and their boys during first year put me into a place where I never wanted to hear any kind of swoony, sappy talk ever again. But this?"

Grace swats Abigail's arm then, shushing her as the gaggle of boys at the door cross their path. Most go around the other side of the coffee table, all except for one. Ben's hand closes around Grace's ankle and he pulls, barely hiding a grin as the corners of his lips turn up in protest. She slides, only her upper body taking house on the couch now. When he drops her leg back on the coffee table she's slouching, and she sticks her tongue out at him as he walks through the narrow space between the girls and the coffee table.

When he leaves, Abigail casts another motherly glance in Grace's direction. The seemingly fearless blonde's features are brushed with blushing hues of pink, and she immediately hides them behind her erratic curls.

"There was just a lot that went on with us over the holiday. Not like that, but just…dramatics. Lots and lots of dramatics. And besides, I don't have time for that. Not with Lucy's stupid rules, anyway."

"Is that what Zach wanted to talk to you about after class, then? Her order of the court?" Grace groans and puts her head in her hands, bringing her knees to her chest.

"It's like she wants to keep me here for the rest of my life, even when it's preventing the _growth_ and _knowledge_ and _upper-level skill_ that I came back here for." When Abigail responds with a simple raised eyebrow, questioning, Grace burrows herself deeper into the cocoon she's made with her knees. " _Ican'tgoontour_."

"What? Lucy wouldn't do that to you."

"Oh, think again. Anything to keep poor, self-destructive Grace in her safety bubble. Looks like I'll be rotting away in this stupid common room while everyone else is having the time of their life."

Abigail frowns, clicking her pen and saving her place in her journal. She folds her legs underneath her, scooting closer to her companion on the couch. She places a gentle arm on Grace's shoulder, looking over the deflated blonde with a promising smile.

"We'll do something about it, don't worry. Tour is so far away that she'll have to change her mind. Or you can just audition anyway, screw what she says." There's a moment of silence between the two, the gap filling with the chattering voices of their classmates. There's a game of pool going on at the table on the other side of the room, and a group of girls hollers as they defeat their opposing team. But the voices reverberating off the walls seem to mingle together into one incoherent mess, the stressors of the day finally catching up to the girls on the couch.

"Oh hey," Grace sits up from her seat, pushing the hair from her face. "Did Sammy ever talk to you about what Zach said?"

It hits Abigail at once; the expression of his face, the clear anxiety that had been practically radiating from his sore limbs…she sighs, frowning before moving to check the time on her phone.

"He had physical therapy and family dinner tonight, so who knows when we'll talk? It didn't seem like he wanted to."

"It's Sammy, of course he does."

"I just…he seemed pretty upset. It's been kind of a rough month. I shouldn't have told him about the whole…" Abigail glances around before putting both hands on her still flat stomach, an indeterminate expression crossing her troubled features. "But you know, it's happening, so…"

"So he's supportive. And he's perfect. But it doesn't mean that you both don't need time to adjust to it. I mean it's a seriously life-altering thing going on here. As perfect as you both might be, this has got to be a scary situation for anyone."

"You're right." The brunette opens her journal back up, dating the next page and sitting in contemplative silence. Grace turns back to her work, clicking the keys on her keyboard at a rate which only proved her distaste for any kind of homework even further. But Abigail can't get the rampant thoughts from her mind and closes her journal once more, shifting her body to face her companion.

"If you ever want to talk…about your holiday, I mean…"

"Thanks, Abs." The blonde slings her legs over Abigail's, resting her head on the arm of the couch. She swallows back an uneasy lump in her throat, closing her eyes to the rest of the world. "Maybe someday, when I'm ready."

"I'll be here."

"I know."


	14. In More Ways That You Know

_March 1_ _st_ _,_

It's been a while, hasn't it? I've been trying to write every day but there's been so much going on lately that it's like I can barely breathe let alone take time to write some journal entry Isa will just skim during our session. I've really wanted to just talk to her lately instead of writing things down, which feels like a huge accomplishment. But I'm not sure if I'm opening up to her because I _want_ to and I _trust_ her, or if it's just because I can't open up to anyone else without risk of hurting them or leaving the situation completely embarrassed. I don't want everyone to know how I'm feeling, so I've just kept it here and I'll keep it here and with Isa until I've sorted everything out.

I know it's not the most foolproof plan but I've never claimed to be honest or chokingly heartfelt now have I? Plus, it's not worth worrying Sammy or Grace over things that can be fixed with a session or writing anyway. Right now, I need to stay silent. Just until I can get myself in a right place. Then I'll talk. Or I'll talk if it gets worse to a certain degree but I really can handle it, so why would I bother them with a problem that doesn't even exist? If I can control it, it's not a problem then is it?

I know I won't let Isa read this. Because part of me is really regretting everything right now because I know that what's happening is wrong. And I know that if Isa finds out I'm completely, 100%, absolutely _screwed._ But there are two other parts of me that are just as loud, and the three of them are over here fighting for my attention during exam week like it's something I have time to deal with. And those major thoughts are;

1\. Hide everything. Isa can't find out. You'll be so dead.

2\. No, tell her. Tell Sammy, and tell Grace too. They'll help you and everything will be great and go back to normal.

3\. There's not even anything wrong so stop kidding yourself. If you wanted to stop this then you would. But because you don't want to stop it clearly isn't a problem.

But you know what, I'm going to be a mother. Whether I like it or not, it's happening. In November, which seemed like an eternity away when I was going for the company but feels like it's flying by now. It's flying by in terrifying, scary leaps and bounds and I don't know what to do. And every day Sammy gets more excited it just adds to the completely crippling truth; everything is happening way too fast, and my dream is dead.

Just like that. It's dead. I can't go for the company anymore, not now and not ever. Who's seriously going to want a dancer who's been pregnant, whose body is so morphed and freakish from the ' _miracle of life_?' And Sammy keeps bringing up Natasha but seriously, who are we kidding here? Natasha had Ethan _after_ she was a part of the company, and she was prima _after_ she had Kat. But she already had an in, and let's face it Natasha is clearly a freak of nature whose path can't be replicated. I'd be doomed to stay in the core if I ever were to get in, and that's never the future I intended for myself.

I was _supposed_ to be prima. And I was _supposed_ to dance until I was too old to do so. But now…I can count the days I have left here as if they're lain out on the table, taunting me. And the more classes I take and the more time I spend dedicating myself to a lost cause the more I want to just be done with everything. Because I might want this baby, and this life with Sammy, but I also want the dream I've been working toward my entire life. And while it might seem selfish it's completely unrealistic to think that I'd just happily abandon all of my hard work and training to be some 50s housewife hosting Tupperware parties and celebrating my husband's success.

But Sammy can never know any part of this. It would crush him, I know that it would by the way he stashes "What to Expect" in his bag and has been training harder than I've ever seen him train. Because I know that he's trying way too hard to make it seem like it's all just for tour when in reality he's pushing himself straight to another injury all because of this baby when in all reality I'm not even sure how I feel about bringing this baby into the world. My feet are swelling, my stomach is loosening, and I've never really believed in morning sickness until this point. Doing pirouettes and finding my point while trying not to drown in gross Sean's (pregnancy-nose-intensified) stench really was never in my agenda.

And then there's the absolute worst part; the one I've been reading about and obsessing over in article after article…I've been losing weight left and right and I know that I need to gain it but I just can't. The thought of what's about to happen to my body horrifies me to no end. And I know that it seems irrational and crazy but I just can't stop thinking the way I'm thinking. I went to fucking _treatment_ for this…and not just once a week sessions like I do now. No, that's perfectly fine and kind of becoming the social norm, if I've been reading right. And I'm not some kind of 'diet gone wrong' story like the Academy counselors wanted to use me as when I got out of initial in-house treatment. No, I went to _inpatient treatment,_ where a pretty scenic lodge held one hundred of us at most, holed up in our beds and watched when we walked like toddlers at recess.

But I _do_ miss it, in some respects. I miss Kaelyn and our late night talks, how we were just thrown together in a room but ended up bonding so well. I miss Kiki and Cameron and Lexi, who played card games with me in the big common room with the high ceilings. I miss the way our voices echoed as we yelled at each other in mock competition, the only worries other than food being saving our usual seats in the common and being scheduled for separate activities during planned time. That year, I spent my entire summer at Linely Ridge. And it's hard to miss it but at the same time it was my home. I had a life there; friends and plans and a momentum completely away from the dance world. And I can't help but feel nostalgia for those freeing moments, even though they were tucked away between fights with my dietitian and being timed during every meal. It's the safety of the place that I crave the most; I knew exactly what I was meant to do there and when I was meant to do it. And while it seemed like they were controlling my every move I was okay with it. Because I was in control of getting better, which was a much bigger and greater destination than I could have ever imagined for myself. And when I was there at Linely, it felt _possible._ Like I could get better, and dance, and become the person I craved to be.

But a person doesn't just come out of that kind of place with a clear head and sound mind, ready to move on with their lives. No, as much as the staff at Linley Ridge (or any other center for that matter) likes to think that their program is 100% effective, no program ever will be. The fact of the matter is that I might be weight restored, and my body might _look_ normal and well, but I haven't gone a week without a day seeing stars in my eyes. I haven't gone a week without skipping a meal or a snack, and I still haven't eaten a sweet since I was twelve and things were far less complicated than they are now. And now that I'm eighteen and pregnant it's like everything kind of makes sense in a weird and twisty way.

I am the way I am because of biology and chemistry. I was made to be a controller; constantly making sure that everything works in my favor and that if it's not, it can be fixed or forgotten. Hell, I decided to come into this world four weeks early kicking and screaming, putting up a fight from the get-go. And since then every portion of my life has been deeply and thoroughly controlled so much that I don't really know what it's like to feel real freedom. And I might never. This illness just might have killed every last ounce of fight I have left in me. And maybe I do need to go back to Linley Ridge. Maybe the bonds I made there and the experiences I had are what I need to be able to do this. But the point is, when will things become clear again? And as much as I want to do this; to have a family, and to be happy with Sammy, I have to think of myself too. Will I be able to carry this baby? Do I want to abandon my dream? What the hell will everyone think of me when I already feel like the class example?

" _Don't become the danger of a diet gone wrong, kids."_

" _Don't push yourself to that point."  
"Unprotected sex will do that to you."_

" _Just look at Abigail Armstrong; she was the top of her class her entire career and look at where she ended up. A treatment center, a weekly therapist, and now a teenage pregnancy? Look, look at the shining example of everything that can go wrong with your career. Look, but do not emulate. Abigail is no example to follow. She has failed at the one thing she has loved the most in her life. Just look at her now."_

I can hear them talking now.


	15. Prisoner

_He was generous and well-behaved; the kind of man you'd want to bring home to your parents-if you were lucky enough to have parents that cared, that is. His stature was lofty and his build a bit lanky, nothing out of the ordinary to the crowd that had filled that dark and swarming bar in Canberra. And at first he was nothing to her as well; simply a well-manufactured piece of the night's puzzle, another face in the crowd of people she'd been scanning._

 _It had become their favorite spot during their short tenure in Canberra. From the very first night the gaggle of long-legged beauties had stumbled upon the hole-in-the-wall bar they'd staked their claim. She could feel the pull of the place from the way they felt at home, dangling lengthy, jewel draped arms across the bar-top and dancing along the close-quartered dance floor, stiletto heels clicking along beaten hardwood until they're strewn haphazardly along their section of the bar._

 _It's this same routine nearly every night, but it's been a while since they've staked claim to just one bar in the city. Usually they're hopping from place to place, arms linked and laughter trailing behind them like the chiming of angelic bells. Since she's joined their group it's begun to feel familiar; the bar hopping, the number of friends that ebbs and flows as they make their road trip around the island continent._

 _Grace sits airily at the edge of the bar, nursing a Black Russian and watching the crowds of people further the aesthetic of the pulsating music. Most of her friends have taken to the dance floor, shaking their hips and luring in their dance partners for the evening. They speak in low whispers or celebratory shouts-there is no in-between in this crowd, she realizes quickly. From her place at the bar it's as if she can observe every inch of the room, stopping and starting the scene as her subconscious sees fit. To see things she hadn't noticed before, maybe? Grace can't seem to discern the blurred lines of the night to any other. But she_ could _feel the ice of condensation trickling down her arm, and the sensation was soon replaced with warmth and bony fingers wiping the clear droplets away from her tanned arms._

 _"I'm so sorry," The bell-like voice crooned in her ear, shaking her head. "I'm down one and already nearly spilling all over you!"_

 _"It's fine," She hears the words come from her mouth, can feel them forming at her lips, but it all feels involuntary. The room is fuzzy in the haze of a memory, the forms of the crowd drifting in and out of her consciousness as her companion takes center stage. "I know how you get."_

 _"Gracie!" The vibrant strawberry-blonde smacks Grace's upper arm but she doesn't feel a thing-not that it would have hurt, anyway. She imagines her new friend wouldn't be able to harm much of anything with her twiggy figure and stiletto heels that have turned her more into a giraffe's stature._

 _Another voice joins them then, strong and even in tone. When the older brunette slides up next to them at the bar with two fruity drinks the pair stands up straighter, fanning themselves along the bar in clearly rehearsed relaxation. She's stunning, just as Lacey is, but in a completely different light. Lacey is the sun; her long locks of strawberry blonde matching a bright laughter and slightly rounded cheeks. Her presence is tall and loud, welcoming the entirety of the bar in one simple glance. And in her tasteful black lace dress, she brings about the guise of a 50's housewife that any man would want to take home._

 _But Poppy…Poppy is different. In this haze the light seems to shine differently on her than on her companion. She emulates the perfect Sydney business woman; short, bobbed haircut accompanying a stance so perfect it makes Grace think of ballet technicalities. Her presence demands their immediate attention in a way that Grace has picked up in the few short weeks of knowing the pack of girls. In some way, she knows that the hard-shelled brunette is their leader. So-in a way that is so unlike the Grace that left Sydney after the prix-she respects their bizarre social hierarchy and sets her Black Russian-half-finished, at that-on the bar-top. She replaces it with the fruity drink from their leader's hand, sipping graciously._

 _"It's nearly midnight, Lacey."_

 _"I know." Poppy's tone is suddenly terse, as if she'd only come to their side of the bar to place blame for an unknown deal. And in the haze of her dream, looking upon Poppy's demanding eyes and crossed hands, it all makes sense. But her mouth will not open to retort the vicious slander she feels rising in her throat. So instead, her body decides to bring the drink to her lips once more._

 _"I know that you're aware of the conditions of our agreement?"_

 _"Yes."_

 _"And you're prepared for the consequences if you can't meet your terms by the end of our night?"_

 _"Yes, but I wanted to talk to you about that. I don't think-"_

 _"Before you say anything else just remember where you came from." Grace can feel the tension in the air; suspended between her friend and the stern-faced brunette in a glaringly obvious and quite painful way. She turns her gaze to Lacey, who's swallowing back a lump in her throat. The doe-eyed blonde has become stark still, posture heightened and full lips tensed into a thin line._

 _"Fine." She finally replies, eyes narrowed at Poppy in a manner that's clearly meant to send daggers her way. But her hands play nervously with the hem of her skirt, and her poker face is cracking with every wrinkle of her voice. "I understand."_

 _"Good, then it's settled. You'd better get on it, then. Time is ticking, and even the newest little pets have to pull their weight at some point."_

 _When Poppy finally saunters away (one last, lingering and hardened glare to their corner of the bar), Lacey pulls the drink from her friend's hand and sighs, taking a long sip before coughing back the fire in her throat._

 _"Seriously, Lace?" Grace trades the glass of liquid arsenic for one filled with ice water, gulping down a good portion of its contents before shoving it in her friend's hand. Lacey chuckles- a faint, broken sort of laughter- and brings the straw of the glass to her full, cranberry red lips. She glances around with a familiar glint forming in her hazel doe-eyes. And as she takes a long and dainty sip from Grace's glass she locks eyes with an olive-skinned man further down the bar, who refuses to look away although he knows he's been caught in the act. But Lacey doesn't seem taken aback by the attention, and while the curiosity of the man's eyes roam across their bodies she brings a finger up and gestures to him, letting a slow smile splay across her parted lips._

 _Grace grasps at their abandoned alcohol the second the man begins his approach. Her heart is racing and the pulse moves rapidly along her veins, an ebb that aches as her anxiety escalates. Her companion spares a glance at her then, and the haze focuses on hazel eyes, scanning her up and down in a way that makes her turn from discomfort. Had it been this bad, really, when things happened? Had Lacey's eyes truly been filled with the current distaste that this nightmare was forcing her to stare down?_

 _"_ Relax, _Gracie. You'll be fine. He looks like a decent guy, right? Way better than anything Kylie's ever gotten by far." The apprehension only heightens in the rebel blonde, who shakes out her hair and straightens her stance._

 _It's the sensation of hearing both everything and nothing at once; slurred conversations can be pinpointed and tucked away with the turn of an ear, lips moving a mile a minute in every direction all around her. And instead of being_ in _her body, she's_ above, _watching every moment play by in perfect sync to her memory. As if she could ever forget a single detail about what she knows is about to happen next._

 _He holds out a hand and she places hers in his, pale skin on olive as he brings it to his mouth. When the thin line of his lips meets her hand she wants nothing more than to retract; his mossy eyes on her body feel like two singular lasers, each equally adept at their goal of fishing through her discomfort. He turns to Lacey then, nodding his head in appreciation._

 _"I knew that the summer would bring you and your company new companions, but I never imagined that such a unique beauty would become one of your ranks." His stare feels like bugs-one million little beetles crawling up her body and clawing their way through her in syncopated discomfort. But when she looks over at Lacey for help her friend is grinning through a nervous breath, nodding once at Grace with a light and prodding smile._

 _"Grace is a dancer-ballet, primarily. She's trained at the Royal in England and over in Sydney, too. Now she's traveling with a company, so she'll only be with us for a while. But I assure you, she has plenty of skill."_

 _In her mind this moment is laced in confusion; the way the man has brought himself even closer to her still, the way it makes electric shocks shoot up her body in a deafening warning. The signals reaching her brain read something along the lines of danger, but Grace is unable to break apart one feeling from the next. Everything seems to be happening all at once in this vision, but from her eagle eyed view the smaller details pinch themselves together. She can see Poppy, nodding appreciatively at Lacey as she watches the man escort her to a more secluded part of the bar. She can see Lacey, usually bright eyed, now shaking her head while sending a guarded smile the brunette's way. It's the subtext that gets her now…_

 _"_ I never imagined that such a unique beauty would become part of your ranks…"

"…You're aware of the conditions of our agreement…"

"I assure you, she has plenty of skill…"

 _From her out-of-body view Grace can only watch helplessly as the olive-skinned man holds up two fingers, signaling the bartender to bring them two of his favorite. She can taste the dark scotch on her tongue before the words have left his mouth; can hear the clinking of their glasses before he's even toasted her beauty. She's lived this moment so many times, from this gallery position, that its dissonant symphony of senses is burned into her very being. So when the all-too familiar warmth of his fingers trailing up her thigh reaches her memory she's already begun feeble attempts at shaking them away, blinking and thrashing and grasping at the air she knows she'll never be able to reach._

 _This is a memory too tainted to be erased._

Grace wakes with a jolt, pushing curly locks from her hair as she sits up in her bed. The first hushed tones of dawn seep their way through the cracks in the blinds, still laced with fading starlight and deep purples. Looking over at the bed on the other side of the room she breathes a sigh of relief. Abigail still rests peacefully. Grace blinks, feeling the insomnia hanging heavy on her eyelids as her mind runs rampant with visions of the bar in Canberra.

One bare foot dangles over her bedside, and then the other. A glimmering of black fringe peers out at her from the cross-body bag hanging from her desk chair. Her limbs go weak, her mouth dry at the sight. Her dangling feet meet the bulky duffle stowed under her bed, stuffed with athletic tape and bandages, tights and pointe shoes. It's a dilemma, the way the flask taunts her gaudily in plain sight as her duffle simply nudges her feet.

 _Make a choice,_ it seems to call to her each time her feet hit its cool fabric. _I will always be here for you._ But blue eyes remain trained on the flask, and bare feet carry the drowsy delinquent to meet it. When its cool metal and velvet fringe meet her fingers, however, the object feels foreign to her hands. The allure of the object and all of the forbidden drinks it may hold has lost its appeal. Grace chucks it underneath her bed just as the warm and unwelcome feeling of lingering fingertips ghosts its way along her thighs once more. She shudders the memory away and makes a beeline for her duffle, tossing in a few extra things before grabbing her key off its hook by the door.

As she steals away to the studio on the brisk and dawn-dusted morning, Grace Whitney catches the tune of the pas de deux from Romeo and Juliet coming quietly from between her lips. Nothing has felt more important; more sure. Getting Juliet would mean freedom, a welcome distraction from the currently unrelenting memory of Canberra bars and sweaty foreign businessmen with million dollar companies.

Juliet would transform Grace Whitney. The grace and elegance of the lead marred by tragedy and immature mistakes. Yes, this would be the perfect opportunity to lose herself. The only issue, she thought, would be Lucy. The very thought of her current ban on tour made Grace huff, quick-tempered, as she threw her things on the floor of the studio.

 _No,_ the thoughts swarmed her mind like one million black birds, casting their shadow on her once more. _Lucy won't ruin this for me. Tour is something I_ need. _I'm going to make the perfect Juliet, then she'll see. She'll have to let me on tour. I am not my mother, and playing Juliet is not what brought her to that hotel balcony. Having this role in common is the least of Lucy's worries. I'm already too much like her to bring up worries now._

 _Besides, what's wrong with hotel balconies when the view is enough to steal your breath on its own?_


	16. Might Break

It started off slowly at first; barely noticeable under the guise of walking tall and wearing a work-hardened expression of concentration familiar to the others in their third year at the academy. Some days, there would be fragile mists of shadowing darkness in the air, its tendrils reaching and brushing along in her mind but unable to deter her from her goals. Then the days became more frequent and the mist more abundant, breaking her boundaries and dripping into every last safe sanctuary in her mind. And then suddenly, the mass invaded her mind. From there, it seemed, there would be no escape from the reality that had become her own personal hell.

In the early morning hours it was only her; Grace had begun to leave at the very first signs of approaching daylight, toting her duffle bag and a morning snack and waving to Abigail as she's just begun to wake. She'd roll over, rubbing her eyes and graciously smiling back to her roommate before sitting up in bed, watching her leave for the morning with a twinge of regret. She'd be training just as hard as Grace if she weren't so exhausted.

Instead she'd found herself racing to the toilet nearly every morning, a new symptom of the ever-growing life inside of her. It was a cold and lonely moment, holding back her own glossy brown hair as her lower body heaved up every last bit of food she'd eaten the past day upon the mere sight of a new day. And when Sammy texted her from morning conditioning, or Grace had some new story to tell about her hopeful claim of Juliet, it never had the effects wished by her well-intentioned friends. In these moments, wiping sweat and vomit from her exhausted and hollowing face, she'd never felt so alone. So she placed a hand on her stomach, hoping to feel a connection to the life inside of her. But the grip of the child came with the pull of losing control, and the spiraling realization had never felt so incredibly real.

And it showed. As she stood in front of the mirror that first shadowy morning, the day's clothes still lain neatly on the dresser by her bed, Abigail Armstrong felt the nervous churning of her stomach as she stared at her semi-naked body. Clothed in only her bra and underwear, it was as if every fault was carefully outlined just for her practiced eyes to pick up. Her eyes began the feverish search for change then, the brunette turning at every angle to ensure a thorough inspection. Lifting two shaking fingers on each hand, she roamed the wide expanse of her own bare skin, poking and lifting with a concentration so intense that the entirety of her mind seemed to leave her. In that moment, she'd fallen back into a familiar pattern. There was a sense of comfort somewhere within the mirror anxiety, her fingers finding the familiar divots between her ribs and resting there in subconscious satisfaction. But as she twisted and turned there were still areas that dissatisfied her, and these were the areas that craved her attention most of all. She cradled the heavier skin along her thighs, tracing tensing fingertips along silvery stretch marks, digging her nails into hated skin. And her stomach-oh, her stomach. She cringed at her changing shape as she rested flat palms along the slight growth. She rehearsed sucking in the air from her diaphragm- _in, out, in, hold_ -altering the shape until she knew it would be a good enough disguise to her growing form. She memorized the sensation of holding in her stomach, bending the shape with the muscles in her lower body and recognizing the control that it took to maintain the figure that would have to fit into her leotard in just an hour's time.

Control. Because that's what this was about, wasn't it? All of the worrying, the stressing and self-arguments. She wanted to badly to feel some form of control over her own life that it had consumed her, filling her mind with damaging thoughts and actions. But Abigail Armstrong knew that she was no longer the powerful in this relationship of the mind. No, _she_ was the one being controlled, altering herself into a person she'd thought she'd long left behind. But she did not feel any rise of panic at this realization; no worry, no sense of urgency to turn tail and run. Instead, she felt numb. It was as if nothing mattered anymore; not herself, not the little moments that made her life so beautiful. Abigail was numb, and not even the blissful proverbs read aloud from "What to Expect" in Grace's softest voice could change that.

(…)

The bright tones of the piano seem to be muted around her; the melody is so deeply rooted to her soul that her body simply moves around it. There is no effort needed in this performance she considers so rudimentary; a few chaines turns added into choreography that felt very first year to begin with wasn't what she'd planned to be working on at this stage in her life. But she pushes; concentrating her energies not on the simplicity of the steps, but on her facials and broadening her technique. And as Miss Raine paces around them, handing out pointers and sending an occasional nod of approval her way, she seems to be adamant on a new line of thinking.

"Looking back is always important if you want to move forward." She says, scanning the row of uninterested students, who'd seemed to already nail the simple choreography and mentally checked out within the first few minutes of morning class. Letting her eyes cross their faces; bored, uninterested, Miss Raine narrows her eyes. "If you can't seem to put effort into something so simple as this choreography, how do you expect anybody in the company to take you seriously? The only student I see making this piece remotely interesting is Abigail. It seems she's the only one who wants a real chance at the professional world, then?"

Abigail would normally be beaming. And she is, in a way. Her lips are turned up in a lighthearted smile, her body keeping the line as she bends forward in a graceful dip. The compliment doesn't seem to alter her, though, and her partner is keen on the changes as he continues through the modified version of their routine, keeping an eye on his girlfriend's visage.

It's a façade, really, and as much as he hates to turn to such immediate blame his mind can't help but call her out on her imaginary perfection. The world has always been hers. At least, to Sammy, that's how it's always been. Abigail Armstrong could simultaneously plot for the conquering of anything she wanted while smiling and laughing and keeping a perfect public face. A face which he loves, despite the occasionally scheming tendencies of his girlfriend. She could balance the world on one slender finger while up en pointe, keeping a ready-made performance smile on her beautiful features. But _this_ -this light smiling and perfect posture-it's as if she's become a completely different person. The smile is unlike something he's seen from her, plastered on and half the length it would be upon being the only student to receive praise from Miss Raine. And her work on this piece…although it was like Abigail to over-achieve and compete on the simplest of tasks, he finds it hard to believe that she'd be fighting so hard on a piece with such little complexity. No, his Abigail was a fighter. She'd be the first to complain about simplicity in third-year choreography (even if it were just to him or Grace), and she'd be asking questions about the importance of said simplicity. But here she was, his passion-driven girlfriend, placated and following along with Miss Raine's newfound teaching style.

It all hit him in a very uneasy light. And it wouldn't be Sammy if he didn't speak up about it.

And so he does. Countless times, and in as many ways as he can think that won't speak to her sensitivity, or make her angry in any way. But it does, as he knows it will, each and every time he attempts to bring up the conversation.

"You've been at it for a while, want to call it a night and head over to Sakis? Grace and Ben are heading over now, they wanted us to come and celebrate the end of the week." She doesn't falter from her warm-ups, merely shaking her head and rolling her eyes at the mention of her friends' favorite pizza place.

"Go meet them, tell them I don't have time to stop and celebrate a day that comes every week." It's a quick response, coming from a resonant and certain voice. But he lets himself linger in the doorway before respecting her wishes, slinging his own bag over his shoulder before heading out.

The next week it's the same thing; short excuses, the typical harsh tone of voice, and promises to meet up later. And the more that it happens, the more familiar the situations seem. She's growing impatient, terse upon each invitation and quick to invent an excuse. He's readily able to find her in the studio, working on new techniques and facing the mirror with a hardened expression. It's all become a little too familiar with him.

"You've been working hard lately...a little too hard." This time, he's stopped her in her tracks. She comes down from a turn in faltering form, looking back at him with a painted stare.

"And? This is the Academy, Sammy. People don't get where they want to be just by sitting around and you know that. You've been working just as hard."

"I have. But I'm coming back from the accident, and I'm learning what I can and can't do…I'm _listening_ to my body."

It's like a light has kicked on in her brain. In the diminutive second it takes for Sammy to blink, every miniscule detail of her features has changed. She's tensed, shoulders closed in tight to her body and eyes dropping to the floor. She brings one hand gently to her upper arm, rubbing the space there in a miserable attempt at casualty. He gives her a moment, his eyes searching her with a knowledge that sears her without even meeting his gaze. He _knows,_ Abigail realizes with a start. And she's terrified.

"I'm fine, Sam. It's just been a stressful week."

"It's been more than a week."

"You know what I mean. I'm fine, okay?" He looks back at her, shaking her head and fixing her skirt in the mirror, and takes an even breath. It only takes that one sentence; the shaking reassurance of control and those two words he hates so much. Those words bring him immediately back to first year; back to her rolling her eyes at him, repeating those words like they were going out of style. A secret she begs him to keep. Her limp body on the floor, face pale and nearly unrecognizable. And that's all it takes to grow the pit in his stomach to watermelon size.

"You're not fine." He's almost whispering then, his hand reaching for her shoulder. She pulls away immediately, his touch now like fire among soft spoken words. It's a reaction she can't control; the anger, the recoiling and immediate desire to take back every word she's said. Her head is spinning, calling him a liar and claiming that he has no idea what he's talking about. And these thoughts run rampant, making her limbs tense and her face grow hot with a mixture of embarrassment and scorn that's so bold that it shows.

But he isn't fazed.

"This just reminds me of first year and you can't tell me that there aren't similarities from then to now. I'm worried."

"Well, you have nothing to worry about."

"You're carrying _our child,_ Abigail. I have everything to worry about. I love you, and I love this baby. I can't let this go on without saying anything."

"I'm still seeing Isa." He knows that. And she's aware of that fact. He nods his head anyway, expecting a follow-up to the blatant fact. But when she says nothing else he sighs, crossing the room in hopes of finding some space to breathe.

"I know. Does she know about this? How hard things have been lately?"

"It's nothing to worry about."

"It's everything to worry about. Even if there's been an inkling of a thought it's something to worry about."

"I'm trying."

"I love you, Abigail. If anything ever happened…"

"Don't you get it?" She's nearly screaming at him now, red in the face with hands running feverishly through the more unruly parts of her hair. "No matter how many times or ways you say it, telling me that you love me isn't going to change anything. You know that I love you-how much I love _us,_ but that's the truth."

"Ab, I'm not…I don't-" He sighs in resignation then, sitting on the edge of her bed and resting his head in his hands. "I'm not trying to change you. I never want you to think that that's my intention. But this is serious. I can't watch you go through the motions anymore and pretend like nothing is wrong. And I think that maybe if things aren't getting better, you should consider"

 _"_ _-Don't say what I think you're going to say._ " The tone of her voice; a hissing through closed teeth and a defensive stance. Abigail crosses her arms over her chest and shoots daggers at her boyfriend from her place across from him on the bed.

"I'm just saying that Linley Ridge was a really beneficial place for you to be, and if it comes down to helping you, and to helping our child…"

"What, you'll tell on me?"

"Ab,"

"No, I don't want to hear this right now." He lets his eyes follow her as she paces, taking slow and methodical steps around the studio. She breathes slowly, in and out, and her lips move in a motion that he knows too well. She's counting. _One…two…three…four…five…, o_ ver and over until the numbers leave her lips and travel to her mind, leaving the room in complete silence as her feet cease their travel. Then she simply stands, eyes closed and fingers tracing the familiar spandex of her leotard, breathing; thinking.

The chaos of her mind is visible in the shaking of her hands, curling in and out of fists in light and perfect rhythm. She can be read from her still body to the tight line of her lips, tense and unwavering as she finally raises her eyes up to meet his.

Her stare is filled with both fire and distraught passion, a faint whisper of desperation outlining their very edge.

Sammy suddenly raises his hands above his head, clasping them behind his neck in frustration. It surprises her, this sudden action, and she steps back as his own eyes meet the fire that's already in hers.

"You know what, you _need_ to hear this." It's the first time he's spoken to her like this; fiery, loud…he's suddenly bursting with a level of passion she's never witnessed before, and Abigail's not sure how to handle it. "You need to figure this out. If you're feeling any kind of tense or upset or unsure, you need to tell someone. You need to tell Isa, tell Grace, _tell_ _me._ We're in this forever, Ab, but it's not just about us anymore. If you don't gain the weight you need, or you work yourself too hard…"

"Yeah, I know all about that. You think I haven't read the hundreds of articles I'm sure _you've_ read too? The ones about how terrible I'm going to be as a parent just because I have an eating disorder…you think that doesn't scare me?"

"I think it does. And it scares me too. That's why I'm saying something. This baby…I never knew how much I'd want a child until I heard you say that you were pregnant. We're going to be a family, and because I'm your family I have to support you, and help you through this. So we can grow together, and we can face this together."

The class next door is in full swing now, bright piano tones coming through the wall in a muted harmony that feels eerie seeping into their silent environment. She lifts herself from foot to foot, breathing, until her voice comes out in near silent slivers of rattled confidence.

"What if…what if this isn't what I want?"

"…What?"

"I just…there's so much on the line; my career, everything I've worked for. We're _seventeen years old,_ Sammy. There's so much that we could do…you know I've wanted to be a prima my entire life." He takes a long time to answer, and when he does his voice is choking, brought forward with the last of the strength that he has.

"So...so you don't want this baby."

"I don't know." She's choking back her words as well, quiet and reserved as the argument hangs in the air between them. They stare at each other in unresolved silence.

Sammy finally closes his eyes, bringing a hand to the back of his next.

"I have to go." He finds a warming smile to bring to his cheeks but it doesn't quite reach, faltering into a shaky line as his eyes brim with salty liquid that threatens to spill over. The conflict of the situation weighs heavily in his mind, forcing the thoughts that come about it. Including losing the child he hadn't even known he'd had that long.

She nods, understanding. He holds her hand-a brief moment- before turning around and leaving the studio, uncertainty hanging in the air between them.

 **A.N:**

 **I don't usually leave these notes, but I'd just like to take a moment and dedicate this chapter to all of the brilliant, beautiful humans out there that are struggling with an eating disorder.**

 **When I was 14, I began a struggle with anorexia nervosa. I used my eating disorder to control things around me; feelings, situations…it consumed me and changed me into a person I could not recognize. And then I watched a little show called Dance Academy. I was 16, and watching Abigail Armstrong on screen I felt like every feeling I'd had was transferred into this hard, passionate, dedicated character. And then I knew that what I was doing wasn't safe.**

 **And so at 18, still struggling with eating and control, I joined a community of people on Tumblr. And I wrote about my day-to-day life. And I met so many wonderful people who understood everything I was going through. And for someone who'd never felt that before, it was incredible. I was inspired by others like me, and I made it a mission to fight my disorder alongside them. And that was the best choice I ever made.**

 **Now, at 21, I'm doing a lot better than I ever have before. But my mission now is to spread awareness. So, if you're looking for more information about eating disorders I urge you to check out the NEDA foundation to learn more. Thanks to the (brilliantly done) representation in Dance Academy, I was able to fully connect with a character for the first time. I could never thank the writers of Dance Academy or Dena Kaplan enough for writing and portraying such an important character and subject matter on a show meant to reach that young demographic.**

 **Thanks for listening to this little rant, I promise these author's notes will be rare. I hope you've all enjoyed this chapter, even if it's put a little grey cloud over our favorite couple.**


	17. Not Where You've Been

**(This chapter was inspired by "Innocent" by Taylor Swift-if you've never heard it, I think it's the perfect fit for this chapter.**

 **Thank you to all of you following the story and reviewing-I appreciate the patience, kindness, and general wonderful attitudes you've had toward this story. It's become quite a journey for me, and I'm glad you can join me in this adventure (and that you're enjoying it, no matter how dramatic it may get!)**

 **Enjoy!**

-Grace—

 _A petite blonde girl sits alone against the side of her bed. Her ringlet curls fall out of what was once a messy bun, and the costume makeup that once adorned her features now streaks her porcelain cheeks, messing more with each embarrassed swipe of the back of her hand to its disarray. The hefty stack of medals that made her feel light as air now weighs heavily around her neck, and the eight year old girl quickly removes them, discarding them far off to the other side of her room where they land with a clang. She can feel the tense nature of her anger settling into her bones once again. Squeezing the well-worn bear in her hands she breathes in deeply, inhaling its scent and wishing for a place far away from this bedroom._

" _I'll make it up to you, Grace. Really." His voice booms across the room at her, hitting her fragile body with such immediacy that she shudders upon hearing it. He's not speaking loudly-in fact, his voice is quite soft, matching the glow of light seeping into her bedroom through the crack of the door. She hadn't known he'd even been there. He is a shadow she won't turn to face. Just a shadow, nothing more. He lost the title of her father when her mother died three months ago. Now he was just a man; a stranger who did nothing more than keep the roof over her head._

 _She won't reply-she can't. With her stubborn nature and broken heart all eight year old Grace Whitney can do is turn her back even further from this familiar stranger, shaking her head and wiping a tear from her eye. She hears him sigh-just once, with the undertone of annoyance he's carried about these past few months-before shutting the door, leaving her in complete darkness. And she doesn't know what to do, the girl, alone in her bedroom with a fresh set of tears trickling down her cheeks. She leans further against the bed, resting her head on its side and kicking her feet out in front of her on the carpeting._

…

Crisp orange lighting graces each corner of the room. It touches the dark and well-worn mahogany, bringing out each of its faults in a glorious piece of nature-made art. Dust dances through the air caught in sight only by the lighting itself. It's the time of morning when even the studio itself seems to be caught in the rise and fall of music; a quiet humming that bounces delightfully from floor to ceiling and back again, surrounding the long-limbed blonde with a joy that will not penetrate through her. It simply surrounds her, prodding at her perfect form and elongated lines to no avail.

Grace Whitney flits from corner to corner of the studio en pointe and off, staring at her form in the mirror as sweat trickles down the thin line of her nose. It's not a difficult number; in fact, she'd danced something similar her very first year at the royal-at twelve years old. What's difficult is the pressure, weighted on her shoulders and her mind until it's consumed every other thought that crosses her mind. And when the music stops, she resets herself to the center of the studio, a shaking fifth position, until it starts itself back up again.

And when her body is aching, and the orange glow of dawn has turned into a pale yellow sunlight that reflects smoothly through the entire room, she sits in front of the mirror with crossed legs. As the music plays she makes faces at herself; happy, sad, despaired, soothed…she laughs a bit at the more ridiculous ones, although the frustration of long hours in the studio has begun to set in. Anger sets in her bones in a way she hasn't felt in a while; stirring and settling until her body feels tense and exhausted, and ready to jump up all at once. She groans, upset at another round of poorly executed facials, and brings her head down to her hands.

"Is that the sigh of a quitter I hear?" She jumps up at the noise, unaware that she'd had company. The plastered smile on her face quickly melts into a real one when she realizes who's decided to stop by.

"Dangle. You're here early, I thought the normal people of the world eat lunch at noon? She jokes, pulling herself up to her feet. He chuckles, but his face immediately falls.

"About that…"

"Oh, here we go." She rolls her eyes, backing away from him and bending down to un-lace her shoes. Grace can feel the lingering anger from her rehearsal take a back seat to disappointment that sinks her heart into her stomach.

"It's just that Tara finally agreed to making plans with me, and if it goes well…"

"Yeah, I get it. Dropping everything for Tara once again. Doesn't it get a little old doing this kind of thing for her, Ben? Don't you get tired of being used over and over again?"

"Grace,"

"Whatever, Ben. I'm happy for you." The blonde packs her shoes away in her bag, pretending to sort through her things with such concentration that it masks the pain she's sure is written all over her button-like features. But she holds her own, pushing the anger forward. When she finally looks up he's staring down at her, arms crossed and unsure of what to say next. She doesn't give him a chance to finish, though, slinging her bag-and a mumbled comment-over her shoulder.

"Seriously, Grace. I'll make it up to you. Don't be so upset."

"It's fine."

"You're sure?" He's rocking now, on the balls of his feet while his eyes search hers for any hint of an upset. But she won't let hers meet his, looking behind him instead of straight at him before pushing past to leave.

"Have fun on your little outing, Dangle. Don't get too star-struck." She leaves before him, shutting off the stereo and taking off on fast feet, walking as the world clouds around her.

The feeling of disappointment hits her in an all-too-familiar light; the way it sinks her heart and weakens her limbs to the point of utter exhaustion. Her eyes grow heavy with the weight of an ocean of salt-water, produced by her own flashing memories and desperate attempts at normalcy. Of course, the thought crosses her mind as she makes a beeline for her room. Of course he drops her for someone else. It's typical.

Because out of the many men that have crossed her path throughout her seventeen years of life, not one of them has decided to stay. Even the grown men-the gentlemen of higher status, or lower social standing that have a tremendous record for love-have left her at one point of another. So why would Ben-her best friend, the closest thing she'd had to a confidant-decide to stick around while she battled in a constant turmoil of her colliding past and present? What kind of person could know as much about her as he did and _choose_ her, time and time again?

To be fair, she had to think that he'd stayed far often than he'd left. He'd chosen her over Tara countless times; had been at her call when she'd needed him, even when it hadn't been convenient. But still, what made it worse was that even when he'd been such a savior, her mind had turned him into an absolute nightmare.

Because he was leaving her. And her mind couldn't stop coming up with reasons why.

…

 _183 days before this moment-before her father 'forgetting' to show up at her dance recital, her life had been jolted to a stand-still in the blink of an eye._

 _She counts these days in her head, marks them in a calendar only she can see. It's been 183 days since her father had last tucked her in, giving her a kiss and singing a song before running a hand through the hair just above her forehead. And a total of 300 days since her mother had been a part of this routine. It was the fourth time the company had made her tour since Grace turned 3, her mother roaming the country and sending her love to Grace through heartfelt emails and goodnight messages on the phone. This year, the tour seemed to last for ages-Romeo and Juliet being a particularly important piece in spreading the love of ballet around the country. So for 300 days she'd said goodnight to her mother by phone, the voice on the other line growing more distant by the second. She'd always call before her engagement, leaving only when her stage manager came to lead her on stage._

 _But there was her father, tucking her in faithfully every night and kissing her for the both of them. And he'd always listen to her pleadings when she asked for just one more song. She was his little girl, after all._

 _That night, it had been particularly hard to fall asleep. She hadn't received the call from her mother, and after an anxious night of waiting and tear-filled kisses for her father, Grace rolled over in bed and squinted up at the ceiling. She searched through an array of glow stars to find pictures in its patterning. Just beside where her mother had hung the big dipper she envisioned an astronaut, boarding his ship for his next excursion. He'd fly among the stars, she imagined, before discovering a planet all his own. And next to him was a beautiful ballerina, dancing in and out of focus as she blended in with the lines on the ceiling. A beautiful ballerina, just like her mother, teaching culture and appreciation for the art they both adored._

 _And then the call had come, the phone's ringing a foreign and unusual noise at this time of night. She heard the faint, disgruntled shuffling of her father's footsteps down the hallway, stopping at where the phone hung on the wall. From her place in bed she could barely hear his mumbled half of the conversation; a mumbled greeting, then silence. Grace rolls over in bed, imagining her father had hung up the prank phone call in irritation and gone back to bed._

 _She's disturbed by his voice-a louder, more booming_ 'what?!' _and then a few lines of nonsense she can't understand. A slam reverberates against her wall, and then his rapid footsteps pace quickly back and forth along the hallway. From his room to downstairs, she listens and calculates the distance by guessing, too unsure of what was happening to poke her head into the hall._

 _Grace covers her face with her sheet in fear as her door slams open, but it's only her father. Her father, who uncovers her from the warmth of her duvet as he speaks to her in a hushed, worrisome voice. He slips his arms underneath her and scoops her up, running down the stairs with her in his hands. She's groggy still, her body exhausted from the lack of sleep. But her mind is wide awake; eyes wide and staring up at her father's broken form. He's good at hiding himself, she thinks as he sets her into the car, but not good enough._

 _"Where are we going, daddy?" It's a moment that seems to be frozen in time, two suitcases hauled into the back of the car next to her, her father's silence as he turns the radio up._

 _"Your mother hasn't been feeling well, darling."_

 _"How?"_

 _"She's taken a fall, I'm afraid." He chokes back the words of his sentence so that his daughter will not hear the strain in his voice. Grace watches his features through the rear-view mirror-the shift in his expression as he clears his throat, lips turning up to a straight line and eyes narrowing their focus on the road. It's like a light switch, this change, and she simply can't look away._

 _"So we're going to see mum? To make sure she's alright?" He nods once, curt, but does not answer her with his words. She turns to face the window, watching the absence of traffic on the highway as they travel. "Is that why she didn't call tonight?"_

 _And there's another shift, in the mid-morning hours when they finally reach their destination. He's holding her hand, standing stark still as the doctors explain things to him. She doesn't understand the hurried medical jargon but she pretends to, nodding her head along with her father and squeezing his hand tighter as the doctor's face grows weary._

 _That's when he drops her hand, and everything grows cold._

 _She's not allowed in to see her mother-her father won't allow it. So she stays in the waiting room and plays hang-man with the nurse, no questions asked. For the first time, she's been stunned to silence._

 _Everything feels so vivid in this moment; the powder blue on the nurse's scrubs, the way her long chestnut hair hangs and dangles from her high ponytail. Aunt Lucy's scent as she's pulled into a hug; tears dripping down the exposed skin on her bare shoulders. The way her aunt shakes as she holds her, clinging and squeezing so much that Grace has to gasp for breath. But while the world feels vivid, she feels so lost. What's gotten everyone so upset if her mother's just taken a fall?_

 _"Grace, darling, I'll always be here for you." Lucy sniffs, unable to catch her breath while her young blonde niece stares back at her, blue eyes wide and wondering. "I promise, I'll be here."_

 _"Come away from my daughter." His voice interrupts their hug and Lucy attempts to wipe the tears from her eyes, although they continue to fall despite her greatest efforts. His form has become towering, leaning over Grace and pulling from the chair and up to his side. She flinches at the contact-so unlike her silly, warm-hearted dad-and looks up at him with astonishment. He does not see her, only trains his eyes on her aunt._

 _If there were ever a word for the terrifying fusion of her father's sorrow and anger just then, Grace Whitney is sure it'd be whispered in her nightmares. Just as the way his face is; contorted into someone she'd never seen before. His forehead is creased and reddening, nearly waxy in its stretched contortion. His hand, tightened around hers with a force that paralyzes her fingers, is sweaty and cold all at once. And his stare…flames spit from his eyes, cooled only by an icy stare she imagines is piercing straight into her Aunt's heart._

 _"Don't you_ ever _come 'round near my daughter again."_

 _"Johnathan, I don't understand what"_

 _"-You and your influences took my away from me, I won't let you take Grace as well."_

 _The news hits her. The puzzle clicks in her brain, almost like the perfect match of words and definitions in a crossword puzzle, and she feels her hand shrink inside of her father's giant one. Grace closes her eyes then, blocking out the bickering with the spectacular images of the fairy-tale characters in her imagination. The astronaut, the ballerina...even a friendly short-haired dog, whom she'd dreamt up in her restless state a week before. And she was there too, the ruler of her own land, come to keep her little kingdom safe._

 _And then she's being pulled from the hospital, her father mumbling to himself as he nearly closes the back seat door on her feet._

 _They pull up to a shady roadside bar, what she'd make up to be a witches lair or potions shop near the back roads of town. Because when he turns around, the man driving is not her father. The hair is the same, but mussed with the stress of the night. And his clothes are, the same old button up and khaki pants she'd been accustomed to. But_ this man, _with his glazed eyes and sharp features, was not the man that she knew._

 _He looks her over once, nods, and then takes the key from the ignition._

 _"They won't allow kids in here, so you need to stay. I'll be back in a minute."_

 _"Promise?" She remembers asking as she eyes the lair closer, its shape twisting into something sinister and unknown as her father gazes back at it anxiously. He doesn't hold out his pinky; doesn't wink or give her their little shared smile. Instead, he turns around and gets out of the car, keys in hand._

 _"Promise." His voice is mumbled and rushed, interrupted by the slam of the car door. And as she keeps an eye on the lair, she imagines that her father might be fighting dragons, or joining her astronaut on an adventure. And when she falls asleep against the window, that's what she dreams._


	18. Collapse

_Some people are just nurturing by nature._

 _Screaming kids in the shops? Cute. A gaggle of toddlers chasing each other through the park during your midday run? Funny. Babysitting some stranger's children so that they can have a few moments to themselves? Easy._

 _To others, this nature is awkward and sluggish; Toddlers in the park get in the way. Kids in shops blow eardrums and make the experience painful. And babysitting other people's children…why?_

 _I've always been the latter…less welcoming to the idea that children are the blessing of this earth, and that we must please them at every turn. The only nurturing bone in my body is formed by the love of my sister, which in turn was only truly deeply developed by my parent's divorce._

 _So, if divorce is what it has taken to get me to a slightly caring point…what will it take, then, to get me to love my baby as much as those parents in the park hold their own on a pedestal? And what if I can't? What if I'm just too high on the own gold medals of the empire I've created for myself had felt. With my best friend by my side, and the pride of being first on some school-mandated list of the most accomplished dancers pulsating between us, the queens._

 _What if I don't want to let go of my place in the empire?_

A week passes, the time slugging on as if the clocks had been drunk the days before. Each moment seemed to bring more of this hazy feeling, palpable in the air as well as each movement of the academy students. With each day a new aura fills the hall, building with intensity as each number is crossed from the thirty-or-so calendars of the third-year students. Roommates say hello for the first time in days, awake in tandem only for class time. Friends walk slow down the halls, cramming their weeks into hastened sentences as they flit from one studio to the other. As they pass first year classes they stare and are stared at; awed at as they ogle the amount of free-time their younger counterparts have.

Two girls walk close together, heads huddled side-by-side as they whisper in a rapid manner, toting their duffles with work-worn hands. They roll their tired eyes at each other, mumbling in one sentence and spitting fire in the other. And as they walk the crowd parts to make way for them, staring on at the pair with curiosity, and-is that a hint of fear? Intimidation.

The older dancers exude an air of confidence as they go, posture poised while their eyes spit flames and flicker through the range of emotions in their mind. They don't seem to notice much at all; not the parting of the crowd, or the stares…just the conversation at hand between the busy times they've had.

"This is what I think about men, Abs…You don't trust them."

"Grace."

"I mean it. Anything they say, whatever they make you believe-they're lies, they're all lies and you can't believe a word they say."

Only class-time brings silence to these upper-classmen, poised and ready as they prove their spots as the top ranking female dancers in their year. Number one and number two, dancing around each other on the list but always remaining unsurpassed. In ending their rushed conversations their peers speak only in silence; the closer friends merely raising eyebrows and barely shaking heads to convey the noise they'd be kicked from class for making.

It's agonizing, both dancers gesturing to each other and to their significant counterparts as if to tell their stories through this silent dance.

Abigail's is a flurry; a furious Bolero in which every direction seems to be calling out to her. It's a quick pause-and-shift grouping of movements, the same change happening in her eyes. She wears a flaming red dress, warmed by the light of her heart. His face makes her happy, Sammy's, and in it she feels the intensity of his intent when he reassures her that they can do it-that they can take care of this. But when she turns from his loving stare her warmth turns to fire-crimson dress unfolding to reveal an intense collection of orange and yellow, climbing the dress and eating its way to her heart. It turns her brows down and creases her forehead, closes her eyes and brings tears to their brim. But they can't extinguish the film of anger that has risen, not until the Bolero takes another sharp turn.

It's these sharp turns that have kept Sammy silent-returning and retreating as the words wanting to make their way to the surface fail to escape him. And she's not saying anything, Abigail. It's as if she's started a conversation she required him to carry on, even when it's one he feels she needs to have. But he's hesitant, having walked away from her, not knowing what she may have done in his absence.

It's a dance of little words between them, casualties spared between classes and training and sessions. She knows that there's still time in her schedule for him, somewhere between Pilates and girl time, but Abigail won't make the thin stretch of spare time out for her boyfriend. _I'm busy,_ she reminds him as he lifts her in near effortless fashion, the recovery from his injury impressing even the stoic Miss Raine. _Tour auditions are coming up, you know how much we're both working toward this. Tighter on the grip but lower, you won't be able to lift me from my ribcage._

These words are all she has left-short clips of advice and rushed apologies-for what, she's not quite sure. The words of wisdom are laced with the regretful epitaph she's begun to write in her mind. Because really, that's what she feels. Regret. Over something she hasn't done, or isn't even sure she's going to do. It's a kind of immediate and consuming panic that makes her heart rate spike upon the memory of the decision she'll have to make. And it comes back every time she sees Sammy, eyes questioning but mind too timid to ask her the ever-burning question in both of their minds.

 _Have you done it? Have you killed our child?_

The word haunts her at night. They all do. _Killer;_ it repeats itself over in her mind, turning and echoing and slamming into the walls of her subconscious until they're all she can think about. Among the hours of research she's done on both camps-her 'born-a-Catholic' side argues that it's absolutely not an option according to a staggeringly obvious number of bible verses thrown into chaotic conversation (Psalm 139, Jeremiah 1:5, Psalm 127….the research is exhausting). On the other hand, after hours of combing through bible verses she barely remembered from her church dress days, she comes across the other point of view.

 _"Typically, the Jewish culture has shown to be supportive of mothers who wish to get an abortion, especially in the case of a mother who is at risk of being hurt by the pregnancy."_

 _Well,_ she thinks as she hovers over the sentence of another article _it's not a physical risk but it sure as hell is a mental one. At least there's one little fragment of support somewhere in this world._

But the research wears on, and her strong-willed Bolero falters under the weight of webpage articles and late nights.

Grace, on the other hand, is a delicate and saddened Contemporary. She lifts and jumps, beauty in the technicality of each movement in each joint and muscle of her body. But her jumps end in rolls and falls, reaching up to the ceilings and walls that have seemed to keep her away from everybody for such a long time. They stand outside of the box made from her own mind, reaching in occasionally only to pull away. And she leaps from one side of the stage to the other-toes pointed, body overextended-in an impressive show of skill that almost makes her smile. But when she looks up, her audience is gone-they're always gone, she concludes-and she's left to take a final bow alone, tumbling from the stage as her mind warps it into something else entirely. A firm and well-built black fence, just reaching chest level, perfect for falling.

She's dressed in black, a fabric daring in its tight fit and slight luster. It calls to her audience with a prayer- _notice me, look at me,_ help _me!-_ but the dancer remains alone under the spotlight. With her movement she pulls a slight piece of fabric, billowing and rippling along with the will of her body. There are times when the fabric has a mind of its own, lulling along to the contemporary at its own beat. Grace manipulates it as best she can, but the fabric seems to be pulling along to its own beat. Sheer black shrouds her face in mystery, the cry for help covered by a mask she can't control.

She dances alone, under the spotlight, and looks out into the audience as her movement becomes more strained. Peaceful contemporary is a deep-rooted contrast to her slowing fluency, and as time wears on her technically perfect routine is shrouded in sluggish and careless movements akin to her mind. Grace turns, a perfect pique, and suddenly her audience shifts. No longer is it full of blissful strangers, but of the all-too-familiar faces she'd willed away so many times. Faces she only recognized from an angle underneath. With some she can only see parts-tops of heads, stomachs covered in rolls, stubbled chins…features that can be put together with feelings. This one is a pulling, that one a sharp pang in the pit of her stomach. They falter her dance just as its hit the peak of her perfection. They push her toward that alluring black fence-that view of the city looking down.

And then there's Ben-toward the front of the theatre, surrounded by seats that separate him from the men that stare with hungry eyes. He's separate, but he's there-with her father and these pieces of her life she wishes she could erase. And written on his face are the words that run through her like venom.

 _I'll make it up to you. Promise._

…

They sit huddled together, blonde and brunette, with legs splayed out in deep stretches. The carpet space between their beds seems sparse but they manage, heads close together and voices hushed although they're in the privacy of their room.

Abigail lays her head on her leg, sighing into the stretch.

"But this is Sam. Think realistically for a minute. If he says he really wants this, he really does. And then who am I to take away _his child?_ " She lets the panic seep into her voice-the _guilt._ It stems from her stomach and bubbles upward, consuming her body and her mind with every passing wave of nausea.

"Someone who wants a career? Or to experience their life while they're still young? Ab, I know it's hard but you can't keep victimizing yourself. It's _your_ choice. You have the _right_ to make this choice."

"But it's his choice too. This baby is just as much his as it is mine. It's _our_ child, I can't just make a decision without his consent."

"But it's _your_ life that's on the line. It's _your_ health, and _your_ well-being. Forget the whole loss of a career thing for a minute and think about what this could mean for your recovery. What has Isa said?"

"Nothing. She hasn't said anything. Because I haven't told her and I don't intend on telling her until I can wrap my head around it myself."

Grace groans, standing up from her stretch and pacing around the room. She's frustrated-Abigail can tell by the way she rolls her shoulders, tipping her head from side to side as she walks it out. She can tell by the way Grace opens the drawer of her desk reserved for these moments, pulling out a small bottle of lotion and rubbing it on her wrists. The blonde then sits on her bed, looking down at Abigail with lips drawn in a thin line. It's the first time she's seen her feisty, wild roommate in such a serious mindset.

"You have a _choice._ This isn't the end-all-be-all of your career, or your life."

"But I need to talk to Sammy."

"So talk to him." Grace's words come out in a terse staccato, and she pulls back at the own severity of her tone of voice. She takes a breath, slow and deep, before continuing with kinder eyes and a lighter voice. "Talk to him, but don't close yourself off to your options. Mull it over _with_ him, but don't let him make the choice by himself. I understand that this is important to him but you're a couple. You could be a family. And families are supposed to make these kinds of choices together."

…

The night brings a moment of free-time to the third years, who congregate around their common room in a clan of dancers who contradict their tired eyes with booming voices. They sit in cliques, pre-assigned by first year qualms and the weekly 'best of' lists. Those who care less have already begun their night nursing secret drinks in their hands, hiding them in the illusion of a thermal coffee cup where the forbidden liquid can't be seen.

A pool tournament has broken out, rows of leggy girls sitting with one leg crossed over the other, coy smiles on their faces as they watch the guys trash-talk each other while shoveling snacks into their mouths. A more reserved group of dancers sit at a window facing the ocean, scribbling into journals and repairing their shoes while watching a rendition of Don Quioxte. They look over their shoulders every once in a while to shush their louder classmates, shaking their heads and rolling their eyes

"I might be cold and bitter but that doesn't mean I can't bake a mean cookie." Grace's voice can be heard rambling along with the rest, its vibrant pitch a revealing itself a step above everybody else's. She leans against the counter of the lounge's small kitchenette, dangling a wooden spoon between two fingers as her eyes glint with a familiar grin.

"I'd hardly say cold and bitter. Obtrusive, maybe. Mysterious? But cold is definitely not the first word that comes to mind." Ben pokes his head inside the oven, delighting in the fresh scent of his friend's concoction. He then feels a tickling-quick pressure on his wrists and he shuts the oven in surprise. "Oi! What was that for?"

" _That,_ " She begins with a start, teasing and wild as she pushes him away from the oven. "Was for peeking at your surprise before it's even begun to finish."

"Oh so these are for _me?_ "

"Don't get yourself too flattered there, Dangle. You'll have to share with the commoners as well."

"And by sharing you mean they all split one and I get the rest?"

Grace laughs then, shaking her head before turning her attention to the dishes. There's a large pile stacked high into the sink, spilling out over the countertops in a sporadic chaos only mirrored by the girl who made the mess. She turns on the tap, letting the water run over dough-soaked dishes before pouring a considerable amount of soap into the rapidly filling sink. As it runs she shoots him a pointed glare, motioning to a stack of towels.

"Really?" He groans, the hint of a smile still ghosted on his face as Grace flicks him with the soapy water dripping from her fingers.

"It's your payment." She radiates defiance, bold as she motions again to the towels. "You didn't think you were going to get all of that for free, did you?"

"I thought maybe being your friend would be enough."

"Unfortunately it's never enough, dear Benjamin." There's a silence between the two, Grace reddening as she realizes the certain entendre of her words. She coughs, dunking her hands back into the sink. It takes a moment, Ben blindly grabbing for dishes from her hands and avoiding eye contact, the silence hanging thin in the air between them. He's stammering wordlessly, opening and closing his mouth with the ghost of a response pricking at his lips. But one never comes, and so he continues to dry her dishes, stacking them in neat piles on the counter as the wafting smell of chocolate chip fills the gaps in the air between them.

"Listen, I just-"

Grace cuts him off then, her soapy hands finding their way to his cheeks. Her lips are soft, a delicate brew of grapefruit and something almost flowery. It's a stark contrast to the tell-tale trace of whisky that hits him with each change in position of their lips; it's faint, but it's there, and it's all he needs to back himself away from her.

"You're drunk."

"I-I'm not. You know how good I've been doing." She's quiet at first, stammering and apologetic as he backs away from her. It's deliberate, the way he sets a distance between them, and that's all it takes to set flames to her heart.

Her posture changes immediately. She holds herself up, pointing an accusatory finger into his chest as her body stiffens in defiance. Her bright blues turn turbulent with the storm that's consumed her, her voice raising as the thunder of its eye. He flinches at her pointed finger but refuses to move, holding the now damp dish towel in his hands as she approaches him.

"How _dare_ you? _How dare you_ come into this kitchen and tell me that I'm drunk. You have no _idea_ what I've been going through. And do you know _why?_ Because you're never here for me."

"Grace-"

" _No._ You don't get to argue with me. You don't get to tell me that you're sorry, or that you've been here, or _any_ of that because it's. Not. True. You abandoned me, just like everyone else has. You just up and left when something better came along. Not that I didn't expect it, I just didn't think it'd happen so soon."

"I never-"

" _Stop talking."_ She hisses at him, pushing a hand onto his chest and moving him a step backward. Whiskey taints her breath now in a painfully evident way, and the rambling that had once been so raucous throughout the common room next door has hushed to a substantial whispering. "You don't get to come along and try to fix me. I'm fine the way I am. You don't get to waltz into here thinking that I'm this broken piece of machinery that you can tinker with as some sort of twisted hobby.

There's nothing wrong with me, and I'm tired of everyone thinking that there is. I have control. I have balance. Just because some crappy things happened to me over the holiday it doesn't mean I'm completely destroyed. So I'm sorry if my little slip scared you, Ben, but it doesn't mean that I'm suddenly some pity case you can turn to when you need charity hours."

A crowd has gathered at the doorway of the kitchenette, the gaggle of once raucous third years now stoic as they watch the collapse of one of their mighty. She stumbles from the sink, reaching up to deliver a hard slap to Ben's cheek. Grace Whitney is deeply offended, the combination of whiskey and adrenaline leaving a firm red hand-mark. But she's not done yet. Her body's shaking with rage, explosive and powerful from her tiny body. It consumes her, spilling out in each stumbling movement as she slams the cabinets shut.

"What are you looking at?" She turns to her audience, then shamed by their sudden notice, and stares them down. They refuse to meet her fiery gaze, staring at walls and floors and flaws in their construction as they avoid the largest flaw in the room. "Go ahead, watch me. Stare at the marvel that is the great Grace Whitney's collapse from fame. I know what you all think of me, anyway. 'Crazy Grace,' right?"

Her impromptu audience shuffles on their feet, coughing and playing with the hem of their clothes. They're hit with the nickname they created on their own from a perspective that reddens cheeks and closes eyes in shame. Some smirk, but it's the faces that hide that drive her anger to the brim. It bubbles from the tips of her toes to the top of her head, and as the anger rises the expression throws itself from one side of her head to the next, echoing and taunting and slurring itself in hellish exuberance. The nickname brings a physical pain that knocks on her body in hatred, flashes of the life she'd lived and the people she'd known driving through her like a hammer that had missed its nail. And as her audience stares on that hammer drives faster, pounding and resounding on her heart until she feels choked by its intensity.

A set of soft hands rests itself on her shoulders, an immediate comfort from the storm she'd created. This umbrella shelters her, one hand around her shoulders as the other grabs her roommate's belongings. She glares with dark eyes blazing with fury, shielding her friend and shooting the others simultaneously. And as the crowd looks on she stops at Ben, lips drawn in a thin line.

"She trusted you. Out of everyone else, she trusted you. She opened her heart to you and you shattered it. You had better not come fifteen steps from her unless you've got something spectacular to say to make up for the hell you've put her through."

"Abigail,"

"Enough." Her voice is low and dark, seeping through tightened lips and gritted teeth in a tone low enough for only him to hear. "You're done trying to make yourself into the good guy. You may have helped her then, but you're nowhere near helping her now. Just…leave her alone."

 _It's a funny thing, the collapse of an empire. To live it means to accept both that you had once been so great and that that greatness has finally lived out its time. You're there to pick up the pieces-to assess the damage. And then, you've got to decide._

 _When is it too late to patch up the leak-to cover that fault in the concrete of the dam that has so long been faltering?_

 _So you have two choices: You can brush yourself off-pick up the duct tape and pour that concrete and try to rebuild the life you've spent so long trying to get back. You can stand by your best friend, first and second on some list, and continue to push yourselves to keep those spots. Or, you can dust off that flask-the old habits that have been dying hard, the only thing that has been there for you when everything else has gone awry, and abandon that life forever._

 _You have two choices-so which will it be?_


End file.
